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^llIBRARY' 


THE 


MAGNOLIA; 


OR. 


GIFT-BOOK  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


EDITED  BY  CLAKA  ARNOLD. 


BOSTON: 

PHILLirS,  SAMPSON,  &  COMPANY. 


Kntered  according  to  Act  of  Congresg,  in  the  year  1854,  by 
PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON,  AND  COMPANY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachuaett* 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


TffE  present  \olume  forms  the  sixth  of  the  series  issued  under 
the  general  title  of  "The  Magnolia;"  and  the  increasing  favor 
which  has  greetf  i  it  from  year  to  year,  has  been  not  only  gratifying 
to  the  proprieto!*s,  but  has  urged  them  on  to  higher  efforts,  and 
induced  them  to  incur  a  much  greater  expense  in  the  preparation 
of  thi?  than  any  of  its  predecessors. 

New  aid  has  been  employed  in  preparing  its  embellisnments,  and 
in  that  respecv.  it  will  be  found  to  bear  an  honorable  comparison 
with  the  numerous  gift-books  of  the  season. 

As  the  best  guarantee  for  its  literary  character,  the  publishers 
beg  leave  to  Btate,  that  it  has  been  under  the  same  pd'^orial 
eupervision  frm  the  commencement  of  the  series 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Friendship, 9 

Dropping  in  to  Tea, .  11 

Christmas-Day  in  "  The  Bush," 19 

A  Thimble-full  of  Romance, 21 

'Tis  Better  not  to  Know, 33 

Music  as  an  Accomplishment, 35 

Crossing  the  Ferry, 44 

Angelina's  Fainted, 46 

Spring  Joys, 67 

The  Chatelaine, 59 

Chimes, 74 

Duty, 76 

The  Carrier-Pigeon, 94 

The  Maid  of  the  Mill, 97 

The  Heart's  Awakening, Ill 

The  Adventures  of  Carlo  Franconi, 114 

The  Blessing, I47 

Self-Love  and  True  Love, 149 

To  M.  A.  G 182 

The  Withered  Rose, 184 

1* 


6  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

The  Mountain  Daisy, 196 

Clemence  Isaure 197 

The  Portrait, 217 

The  Game  of  Proverbs, 219 

Song  of  a  Caged  Bu'd, 228 

The  Trifles  of  Life, 230 

The  Summer  Evening, 239 

The  Flower  Gatherer 241 

The  Irish  Mother 246 

The  Life  Ransom, 248 

Woman's  Faith, 264 

Lessons  in  the  School  of  Life. 266 

The  Gambler, 271 

Love  and  Ambition, 274 

The  Old  Yew-Tree 280 

The  Angel  and  the  Flowers,  ...             282 

Sonnet 288 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Bubjeci.  Painter. 

Presentation  Plate. 
Illuminated  Title. 

Spring  Joys.  Bouirer. 

The  Maid  op  the  Mill.  Corbould. 

The  Blessing.  Bonnar. 

The  Mountain  Daisy.  Bouiker. 

The  Irish  Mother.  Scanlan. 


Engraver. 


Page. 


Smith 

67 

Smith. 

97 

Smith. 

147 

Smith. 

196 

Smith. 

246 

THE    MAGNOLIA 


FRIENDSHIP. 


We  have  been  friends  together, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade, 
Since  first  beneath  the  chestnut  trees. 

In  infancy  we  played. 
But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  hearty 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  friends  together — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  gay  together ; 

We  have  laughed  at  bitter  jests — 
For  the  fount  of  hope  was  gushing 

Warm  and  joyous  in  our  breasts. 
But  laughter  now  hath  fled  thy  lip, 

And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow ; 
We  have  been  gay  together — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 


10  FRIENDSHIP. 

We  have  been  sad  together : 

We  have  wept  with  bitter  tears 
O'er  the  grass-grown  graves  where  slumbered 

The  hopes  of  early  years. 
The  voices  which  were  silent  there 

Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow ; 
We  have  been  sad  together — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 


DROPPING    IN    TO    TEA; 


FROM   SAD   EXPERIENCE. 

I  AM  at  the  head  of  a  small  but  well-ordered  house- 
hold, and  blessed  with  a  scientific  husband.  If  there 
IS  any  thing  I  pride  myself  upon,  it  is  having  things 
neat  and  nice.  I  hate  being  put  out  of  my  way — it 
fidgets  me ;  and  if  there  is  one  thing  in  particular  that 
niiRes  my  usually  smooth  temper,  it  is  that  awful  habit 
my  husband  has  of  bringing  unexpected  friends  to 
lunch,  breakfast,  dinner,  tea,  or  supper,  as  the  case 
may  be.  How  often  have  I  said  to  him,  "  My  dear 
John,  nobody  can  be  more  happy  to  see  my  Mends 
than  I  am ;  no  one  more  happy  to  be  introduced  to 
new  ones  ;  but  do  not  take  me  unawares  ;  let  me  know 
in  time  to  have  something  prepared." 

But,  alas  !  it  was  always  in  vain.  My  dear  husband 
knows  nothing  of  housekeeping,  and  he  has  no  idea 


12  DKOPPING    IN    TO    TEA. 

how  hurtful  it  is  to  my  feelings  to  see  what  would  be  a 
comfortable  little  supper  for  two  put  before  ten.  He 
can't  conceive  the  horror  of  not  having  enough  milk  for 
tea,  and  during  that  meal  being  obliged  to  send  Jane 
for  more ;  and  then,  somebody  knocking  at  the  door 
during  her  absence,  my  poor  deaf  Mary  answering  the 
summons,  and  bringing  the  most  absurd  name  or 
message. 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  said  my  niece,  as  sbe  entered  the 
room  one  evening,  "  I  have  just  had  a  letter  to  say 
that  poor  little  Annie  is  very  ill,  and  mamma  wishes 
me  to  go  home  and  nurse  her,  so  will  you  just  let 
Mary  carry  my  bag  to  the  railroad,  for  I  must  be 
off  as  soon  as  possible,  to  get  there  in  time  for 
tea;  it  doesn't  take  more  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  so  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time,  if  I  start 
directly." 

"Certainly,  my  dear,"  I  replied,  "then  you  will 
leave  Robert  with  me." 

"  Yes,  aunt,  I  think  so,  if  you  please.  There  is  no 
occasion  for  his  going  home  ;  and  he  always  enjoys 
himself  so  much  with  you,  that  I  think  it  is  a  pity  to 
curtail  his  visit. 

"  Well,  now,  my  dear,  go  and  get  ready,  or  you  will 
be  too  late,"  said  I,  as  I  rang  for  Mary. 


DROPPING    IN    XO    TEA.  IS 

Jane  answered  the  bell.  —  "Jane,  just  send  Mary 
to  me." 

"  Yes,  mum." 

"  Mary,"  said  I,  when  she  appeared,  in  my  loudest 
tone  of  voice,  "  I  wish  you  to  carry  Miss  Mordaunt's 
box  to  the  station;  she  is  going  home  this  evening; 
get  ready  directly." 

"  Yes,  mum ;  and  please  could  I  stay  and  drink 
tea  with  mother  this  evening,  she  lives  close  by  the 
station." 

I  considered  a  little,  and  then,  in  a  moment  of 
weakness,  I  thundered  out  "  Yes." 

Mary  curtseyed,  and  departed. 

"And  now,  Jane,"  said  I,  when  my  niece  and  Mary 
were  fairly  gone,  "  bring  up  tea,  and  tell  your  master 
and  Master  Robert." 

"  Master's  out,  mum ;  and  said  he  shouldn't  be 
home  to  tea,  but  would  have  a  quiet  cup  by  himself, 
like,  when  he  did  come." 

"  Well  then,  Jane,  you  need  not  bring  up  the  urn 
for  Master  Robert  and  me.  The  black  kettle  will  do. 
Here,  Robert,  my  dear,"  said  I  to  my  nephew,  as  I 
handed  him  his  cup,  "  sit  there  by  the  fire.  We'll 
have  our  tea  quite  cosily  together."  So  I  drew 
the  small  table,  with  my  small  Rockingham  tea-pot. 


14  DROPPING    IN    TO    TKA. 

and  the  black  kettle,  and  his  thick  bread  and  butter, 
and  my  muffin,  between  us ;  and  we  sat,  one  on  each 
side  of  the  fire,  as  comfortable  as  could  be.  Just 
then,  there  was  a  ring  at  our  bell.  "  What  can  that 
be,  Robert?"  said  I. 

"  The  post,  perhaps,  aunt,  or  my  boots  come  from 
being  mended." 

"  Please,  mum,  it's  master,  and  two  foreign  gentle- 
men," said  Jane,  as  she  entered,  looking  much  flurried. 

"  Good  Heavens !  "  cried  I,  as  I  rose  precipitately, 
upsetting,  as  I  did  so,  our  small  table ;  so  that  nearly 
all  our  store  of  milk  was  on  the  floor,  mixing  with 
the  tea  and  water,  and  bearing  in  its  current  my 
unfortunate  muffin,  just  as  the  gentlemen  entered  the 
room. 

"  Why,   my   dearest   Anne,    what   a    state    you    are 
in,"  said  my  husband,  after  he  had  introduced  me  to 
the    two    foreigners.      In    answer    to    my   husband'* 
question,  I  faltered  out  that  "  I  did  not  expect  him. 
And  it  never  struck  me   till  afterwards,  how  strangij* 
it  must  have    appeared   to   foreigners,   that  the   sigh" 
of  a  husband  unexpectedly  should  cause  the  wife   t(" 
upset   her    tea-table.     But   now  my  mind  was  mucl 
relieved  by  the  sight  of  my  faithful  Jane  bringing  i; 
our  best  tea-service  and  silver  teapot,  which  she  depos 


DROPPING    IN    TO    TEA.  15 

ited  on  the  large  dining-table.  Then  she  quickly 
cleared  away  my  broken  Rockingham,  the  black 
kettle,  muffin,  etc. ;  but,  to  my  horror,  replaced  the 
milk-jug  on  the  table. 

"'N^Tiat,  Jane,  is  there  no  more  milk?"  whispered  I. 

"  No,  mum,  not  a  drop,"  whispered  she  in  return. 
I  had  just  given  the  kitten  the  last,  when  master 
rung." 

"  Then  you  must  fetch  some  directly,"  whispered  I. 
And  now,  with  the  hissing  urn  and  the  best  tea- 
service  before  me,  and  the  prospect  of  more  milk 
speedily,  I  thought  my  troubles  were  at  an  end. 
.  "Anne,  my  dear,  you  have  given  me  no  milk," 
said  my  husband. 

"I  thought  you  did  not  like  it,"  said  I,  in  a 
rather  significant  tone ;  endeavoring  to  make  signs 
that  I  had  none.  But  my  poor  husband  never  could 
take  a  hint,  so  he  passed  his  cup  all  the  same,  and 
I  was  obliged  to  tell  him  he  must  wait  till  Jane 
brought  it  up. 

Another  ring  —  "Ah,  that  reminds  me,"  said  my 
husband,  "  that  I  asked  Belmont  and  his  wife  to  come 
and  take  a  friendly  cup  of  tea  with  us." 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Belmont!"  repeated  I. 

"  Yes,  and  they  are  on  their  bridal  tour ;  she  's  a 


16  mOPPING    IN    TO    TEA. 

most  elegant  woman,  and  it  was  a  very  good  match 
for  Belmont  in  money  matters." 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Belmont,"  announced  Jane,  with 
her  bonnet  and  shawl  on,  ready  to  go  for  the  milk. 

"  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  my 
wife,"  said  Mr.  Belmont  to  me.  The  lady  bowed 
coldly,  as  if  she  felt  that  she  was  an  elegant  woman, 
and  an  excellent  match ;  —  and  now  behold  us  !  My 
cheeks  flushed,  my  hair  untidy,  no  milk,  and  the 
elegant  bride  by  my  side,  making  a  placid  remark,  on 
the  weather ! ! 

The  milk  came  —  the  tea  was  over,  and  the  company 
safe  in  our  drawing-room;  as  I  led  my  bride  up,  1 
whispered  to  Jane,  when  we  had  been  up  about  five 
minutes  to  come  and  say  somebody  wanted  to  speak 
to  me,  as  I  must  see  about  the  supper.  The  little  ruse 
answered;  I  gravely  asked  the  bride  to  excuse  me 
for  a  moment,  and  then  rose  and  left  the  room. 

"Jane,  just  go  and  fetch  me  two  shillings'  worth 
of  tarts  and  cheesecakes,"  said  I.  Jane  ran  for  her 
bonnet.  "  And,  Jane,"  I  cried  after  her,  "  before  you 
go,  ask  Master  Robert  to  go  to  the  bell,  if  it  rings 
while  you  are  out."  "Yes,  mum,"  she  answered,  in 
the  distance.  I  wonder  if  she  heard  me  at  that 
distance,"  thought  I ;  "  but  surely  she  would  not  have 


DROPPING    IN    TO    TEA.  17 

answered  if  she  had  not."  Just  as  I  had  finished  my 
preparations,  there  was  a  ring  a<t  the  bell ;  "  I  will  wait 
and  see  who  it  is,"  thought  I,  "  before  I  go  up  stairs 
again."  So  I  waited,  but  no  one  came.  The  bell 
rang  again.  I  ran  up  to  the  drawing-room  wildly, 
and  opened  the  door ;  the  bride  stared,  I  shut  it 
again,  Robert  was  not  there.  "Robert,"  cried  I,  a* 
the  top  of  my  voice;  faintly  I  heard,  "Yes,  aunt." 

"  Where  in  the  world  are  you  ? "  I  cried  angrily. 

"In  bed,  aunt." 

"  Oh,  you  naughty,  imfeeling  boy,  to  go  to  bed 
when  you  might  be  of  so  much  use,"  I  screamed,  aa 
I  rushed  down  stairs  to  open  the  doy.  I  did  open 
the  door,  and  what  met  my  astonished  gaze  ?  —  the 
Heriotts,  the  Blanters,  and  the  Callers!  —  all  in  full 
dress,  guests  my  husband  had  invited  to  meet  the 
bride ! 

I  muttered,  I  blushed,  I  made  excuses,  which  of 

course  made  every  thing  worse,  and  eventually  led  the 

new  comers  into  my  drawing-room ;   and  there,  what 

met  my  sight  ?  —  one  of  the  foreigners  on  the  floor  ir 

strong  convulsions.     My  husband  was  trying  to  revive 

him;  he  held  up  his  head,  while  the  other  foreignei 

was  rushing  about  the  room  like  one  distracted,  seizins 

every  thing  in  the  shape  of  a  scent-bottle,  which  h< 
2« 


18  DROPPING    IN    TO    TEA. 

applied  either  to  the  other's  nose,  or  in  spilling  over 
his  face ;  and,  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  the  placid 
bride  had  fainted  in  the  arms  of  her  husband,  who  was 
in  vain  endeavoring  to  revive  her. 

"  Let  Jane  bring  some  cold  water,  and  you  get  your 
sal- volatile,  —  and,  stay,  send  Mary  for  Dr.  Rent," 
cried  my  husband. 

"Alas!"  shrieked  I,  "I  have  no  servant  at  home." 
I  left  the  room,  I  ran  and  fetched  the  water,  I  fetched 
the  sal-volatile,  and  as  I  returned  I  saw  the  astonished 
Robert,  wrapped  in  an  old  dressing-gown  of  my  hus- 
band's, peeping  in  at  the  door,  and  sobbing,  "  I  didn't 
want  to  go  to  l^d ;  but  Jane  said  you  called  after  her, 
and  said  I  was  to  go  to  bed,  and  so  I  did."  Regard- 
less of  his  costume,  I  made  him  help  me  bring  in  the 
water.  Between  us  we  revived  the  lady,  and  by  the 
time  Jane  came  back,  the  gentleman  was  well  enough 
to  be  removed  in  a  cab.  The  other  guests  were 
dispersed  before.  Then,  when  all  were  gone,.!  threw 
myself  upon  a  sofa:  "John,"  said  I,  "it  will  be  the 
death  of  me,  if  you  ever  do  such  a  thing  again." 

I  do  think  John  was  moved  at  my  suflferings,  for 
this  has  been  my  last  experience  as  to  being  taken 
unawares. 


CHRISTMAS-DAY    IN    "THE    BTTSH." 


BT  MARK  LEMON. 


I  WONDEE,  Edward,  who  will  meet 

To-day  around  my  father's  fire? 
Dear  sister  May,  with  voice  so  sweet  — 

The  very  sweetest  of  the  quire ; 
And  Mary  too  —  poor  widow'd  girl, 

She  and  her  boy  will  sure  be  there :  — 
Here  is  the  little  golden  curl 

She  gave  me  of  her  baby's  hair. 

Old  Uncle  John  to-night  will  sing 

"Will  Watch,"  as  he  did  years  ago. 
When  I  was  quite  a  little  thing, 

I  used  to  weep  at  "  Susan's  "  woe. 
And  when  they  have  the  elder-wine 

That  mother  keeps  for  Christmas-day, 
They'll  drink  your  health,  dear  Ned,  and  mine. 

And  wish  we  were  not  far  away. 


20  CHKISTMAS-DAY    IN    "THE    BUSH. 

And  then  they'll  talk  of  all  we  planned 

Before  we  crossed  the  mighty  sea, 
And  wonder  if  this  distant  land 

Can  ever  be  a  home  to  me. 
Then  one  by  one  they  will  recall 

Your  love  for  me,  so  strong  and  true, 
Your  ever  trustful  heart.  —  and  all 

Will  bless  the  God  who  gave  me  you. 


A    THIMBLE-FULL    OF    ROMANCE. 

The  tailor's  wife  had  stitched  since  five  in  the 
morning.  It  was  now  noon  —  the  day  after  Christmas- 
day,  and  there  really  was  something  for  dinner.  The 
tailor  was  from  home  —  the  children  were  out,  but  it 
was  close  upon  twelve  o'clock,  and  in  a  trice  they 
would  be  back,  eager  and  hungry  for  their  meal.  Mrs. 
Atkins  put  down  her  work  —  a  very  handsome  waist- 
coat of  sky-blue  satin,  sprinkled  with  stars,  and 
bordered,  it  might  be,  with  the  zodiac,  (the  border 
was  so  strangely  beautiful,)  clapped  her  thimble  on 
the  mantel-piece,  and  hurried  to  the  cupboard.  At  all 
events,  there  was  a  dinner  to-day ;  and  something 
seemed  to  promise  the  tailor's  wife  a  brighter  time, 
and  a  fuller  table  for  the  time  to  con  e.  Atkins  had 
gone  to  make  inquiry  about  a  ship  that  was  to  saU  for 
the  other  side  of  the  world ;  and  though  he  had  not  at 
the  time  a  single  piece  of  Queen  Victoria'  i  minted  gold 
to  purchase  a  passage  for  himself  and  fami  y,  he  never- 
theless would   learn   all   the   particular?   •  f  cost   and 


22  A    THIMBLE-FULL    OF    ROMANCE. 

aecessary  preparation.  It  was  a  whim,  he  knew ;  for 
all  that,  it  was  a  whim  that  controlled  him  beyond  his 
powers  of  self-argument,  had  he  tried  to  exercise  them. 
And,  all  alone,  Mrs.  Atkins  spread  the  table.  There 
was  a  piece  of  beef  left,  and  a  small  piece  of  plum- 
pudding  ;  and  still  the  pudding  remained  small, 
although  Mrs.  Atkins  turned  the  plate  that  contained 
it  round  and  round  half-a-dozen  times,  and  took  half-a- 
dozen  side-long  looks  at  it,  as  though  endeavoring  to 
behold  it  in  the  most  improved  light.  But  pudding  is 
not  to  be  thus  magnified. 

The  table  laid,  Mrs.  Atkins  thought  she  would 
execute  a  few  more  stitches,  filling  up  the  time  until 
Atkins  and  the  children  came.  As  Mrs.  Atkins 
approached  the  mantel-piece,  extending  her  fingers 
towards  the  thimble,  the  thimble  —  of  its  own  mo- 
tion—  fell  over  upon  its  side,  with  one  distinct 
prolonged  sound,  as  from  a  silver  bell ;  Mrs.  Atkins's 
thimble,  by  the  way,  being  of  no  such  precious  metal, 
but  of  working-day  brass.  Mrs.  Atkins  drew  back 
her  fingers  from  the  thimble  as  from  a  nettle,  when 
the  thimble  —  self-moved  —  rolled  off  the  mantel-piece 
and  fell  upon  the  hearth.  And  then,  to  the  astonish- 
ment and  terror  of  Mrs.  Atkins,  who,  strange  to  say, 
could  not  at  that  moment  scream,  though  in  no  former 


A    THIMBLE-FULL    OF    ROMANCE.  23 

accident  had  she  failed,  when  otherwise  determined  — 
then,  from  the  thimble  began  to  pour  forth,  in  small 
quick  puffs,  smoke  of  silvery  clearness.  Mrs.  Atkins 
dropped  in  her  chair,  and  sat  with  her  eyes  upon  the 
thimble,  still  puffing  a  shining  vapor  —  puffing  and 
puffing,  until,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  room  was  filled 
as  with  a  cloud,  and  every  object  enveloped  in  it, 
save  the  small  brass  thimble  that  glittered  like  a  speck 
upon  the  hearth.  In  the  midst  of  her  terror,  Mrs. 
Atkins  thought  of  her  little  bit  of  beef  and  fragmentary 
pudding;  but  they  were  lost  to  her  sight,  muffled  up  in 
the  one  white  cloud  that  possessed  the  apartment. 

After  some  minutes,  the  cloud  cleared  away,  slowly 
rolling  itself  up  the  chimney,  and  Mrs.  Atkins's  brass 
thimble  lay,  like  any  other  two-penny  implement,  upon 
the  hearth.  The  same  well-worn  thimble  —  the  same 
familiar  common-place  that  for  many  a  day  had  armed 
her  sempstress  finger. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Atkins  ?  "  said  a  voice  from 
the  mantel-piece. 

Mrs.  Atkins  jumped  round  with  the  shortest  of 
jumps.     She  looked  and  saw  a  gentleman 

"Well,  he  was  the  strangest  of  gentlemen,  and  he 
was  in  the  strangest  position !  But  we  will  tell  every 
tittle  we  know  about  him. 


24  A.   THIMBLE-FULL    OF    K0MANC;E. 

Measured  by  tailor's  measure,  the  gentleman's 
stature  might  have  been  about  six  inches.  A  gentle- 
man with  a  very  clean  and  lofty  look ;  his  hair  an  iron 
gray ;  with  a  few  wisdom  scratches  made  with  an  iron 
pen — the  sort  of  pen  made  out  of  Time's  old  scythes  — 
about  the  corner  of  his  eyes,  that  had  a  ceiling-ward 
look ;  a  look,  moreover,  of  self-satisfaction.  He  was 
very  soberly  dressed  in  black  —  very  soberly ;  and  then 
his  white  neckerchief  was  white  and  pure  as  a  snow- 
wreath.  Mrs.  Atkins  thought  she  recognized  in  the 
miniature  man  a/ well-known  face;  one  of  those  coun- 
tenances that,  like  a  royal  face  upon  a  shilling,  is  the 
property  of  every  body  who  can  possess  it.  She  had 
seen  a  picture  of  the  Poor  Man's  Friend,  and  —  no,  it 
could  not  be  he  ;  it  was  impossible  —  nevertheless,  the 
face  of  the  manikin  was  wondrously  like  that  flesh- 
and-blood  goodness. 

And  the  little  gentleman,  though  somewhat  uneasily, 
sat  among  a  sprig  of  Christmas  holly  that  was  upon 
the  mantel-piece ;  sat,  and  with  his  best  pains,  looked 
secure  amid  his  bower  of  spikes. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  take  a  chair,  sir,  or  this  stool  ?  " 
—  said  Mrs.  Atkins,  as  she  passed  her  apron  over  a 
three-legged  piece  of  deal,  —  you'll  be  more  com- 
fortable, sir." 


A    THIMBLE-FULIi    OF    K.OMANCE.  25 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  little  man ;  his  face  puck- 
ered as  he  spoke,  and  shifting  uneasily,  —  thank  you, 
but  people  condemned  to  live  in  thimbles  are  not 
allowed  to  be  comfortable." 

Poor  creatures !  cried  Mrs.  Atkins,  "  it  must  be  a 
strait  lodging,  goodness  knows.  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing." 

"  Benighted,  darkened  being  !  "  cried  the  little  man 
in  black ;  "  miserable,  forlorn  person,"  he  continued, 
as  though  from  a  platform,  —  did  you  never  hear  of 
Solomon's  brazen  kettles?" 

"  Never,  sir,"  said  the  tailor's  wife,  with  great 
humility. 

"  Know,  then,  that  Solomon  has  at  this  moment  a 
thousand  brazen  kettles  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  and 
in  every  kettle  is  a  prisoner,  confined  for  no  good  he 
has  done,  depend  upon  it,  to  hear  the  sea  moan  and 
roar,  and  answer  it  with  his  groans.  And  as  in  brazen 
kettles,  so"  —  and  the  little  man  sighed  heavily  — 
"  so  in  brass  thimbles." 

"  I  don't  understand  a  word  of  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Atkins ;  and  with  a  resolute  hand,  she  took  up  her 
thimble,    and   turned   it   over   and   over,    and    almost 

unconsciously  brought  the  thimble  to  her  nose.     But  it 
3 


2t)  A    THIMBLE-FULL    OV    KOMAXCE. 

iid  7iot  smell  of  sulphur  —  the  thimble  was  the  like 
thimble  it  was  before. 

"  For  ten  years  have  I  lived  in  that  thimble.  Ten 
years,"  cried  the  little  man  —  and  Mrs.  Atkins  stared 
now  at  her  visitor,  and  now  took  another  look  at  the 
thimble  ;  and  then  she  courageously  thrust  her  thimble 
finger  into  the  familiar  brass,  and  nodded  at  the  little 
man  among  the  holly,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Now  you  are 
well  got  rid  of,  I'll  take  care  you  shan't  get  in  again." 

The  little  man  seemed  to  understand  the  threat  of 
the  look,  for  he  said  with  a  languid  smile,  —  "  It's  no 
matter  now:  my  ten  years  are  up  —  my  time's  out 
to-day.  All  I  have  now  to  do  is  to  confess  my  past 
sins  and  the  sufferings  they  purchased  me,  and  then  I 
pass  to  peace.  I've  paid  the  penalty  of  my  selfishness, 
and  my  unquiet  ghost  will  cease  to  haunt  your  brazen 
thimble." 

"A  ghost!"  cried  Mrs.  Atkins.  "Well,  I  never 
thought  I  could  be  so  bold  to  a  ghost.  But  then,  to 
be  sure,  you're  such  a  very  little  one.  What  was 
your  name  ? " 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  small  man.  "  I  was  called 
the  Poor  Man's  Friend.  And  I  can  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Atkins,  that  I  have  paid  pretty  sharply  for  the  vanity 
and  vexation  of  the  title." 


A    THIMBLE-FULL    OF    ROMANCE.  27 

"  That  is,  I  suppose,"  answered  the  spirited  little 
woman,  "you  wasn't  his  friend  at  all?  Only  the 
name,  like? " 

"  Listen  to  my  story,"  said  the  little  gentleman, 
again  shifting  himself  among  the  holly  leaves.  "  I 
was,  when  I  was  alive,  and  enjoying  my  proper 
stature,  I  was  a  man  of  exceeding  wealth.  Rich 
indeed  was  I,  and  as  every  body  thought  —  and  at 
last  I  got  myself  to  think  so  too — very  good,  very 
benevolent,  very  pious.  Indeed,  I  had  the  habit  of 
talking  so  much  about  the  duties  of  the  rich  to  the 
poor,  that,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  never  could  find 
sufficient  time  to  perform  them.  Nevertheless,  I 
could  not  forbear  to  talk  —  it  was  so  pleasant,  so 
easy  too  ;  and  with  no  other  effort,  it  made  me  a 
name  that  smelt  among  my  particular  friends  like  a 
sweet  ointment." 

"The  inore  shame  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Atkins.  "To 
get  a  good  name,  and  live  upon  it  and  do  nothing  for 
it;  why  it's  worse  than  coining  —  yes,  passing  bad 
money  is  nothing  to  it." 

"Very  true,  Mrs.  Atkins,"  answered  the  unruffled 
manikin.  "  Very  true.  Yet  there's  a  deal  of  brassy 
character  passed  for  good.  And  it  may  sound  right 
enough  upon  the  world's  counter,  but  it  won't  do,  Mrs. 


28  A    IHIMBLE-FULL    OF    ROMANCE. 

Atkins,  when  the  angels  come  to  ring  it.  It  won't  do, 
ma'am." 

"I  should  say  not,"  replied  the  tailor's  wife,  with 
womanly  decision. 

"  And  so  I  found.  It  is  now,  madam,  ten  years  ago 
since  I  died.  If  you  doubt  me,  take  your  way  to  the 
cemetery.  There,  madam,  you  will  see  my  monument. 
There's  no  mistaking  it  —  'tis  such  a  handsome  thing, 
with  work  enough  in  it  to  have  kept  the  sculptor  and 
his  family  for  a  twelvemonth.  I  am  there,  ma'am,  in 
alto  relievo  in  four  compartments ;  and  in  all  four  my 
likeness  by  lamenting  friends  is  considered  very  perfect. 
In  one  place  I  am  giving  away  quartern  loaves  —  in 
another  I  have  taken  off  my  own  coat,  and  am  serenely 
offering  the  garment  to  a  beggar  —  and  the  third" 

"  I  recollect.  Good  as  a  picture  to  look  at  it  —  I 
saw  it  with  Tom  and  the  children  one  Sunday.  Then 
we  could  get  a  walk  on  a  Sunday ;  and  now  it's  no 
walk,  but  for  ever  stitch.  La,  bless  me !  and  that's 
you  in  that  monument!  Well,  I  never!"  ejaculated 
Mrs.  Atkins.  "And  now  I  reco  ect,  what  a  lot  of 
fine  stuff  there's  writ  about  you." 

"  Don't  name  it,  ma'am,"  said  the  little  man  hastily; 
"  even  as  I  am,  my  cheek  tingles  to  think  of  it.  And 
when  I  reflect " 


A    THIMBLE-FULL    OF    KOMANCE.  29 

"Never  mind  reflections,"  cried  the  tailor's  wife 
with  decreasing  deference  towards  her  visitor  —  "  but 
come  to  the  story  at  once.  How  did  you  get  in  my 
thimble  ?  " 

"  That  was  my  sentence  —  that  was  my  dreadful 
punishment,"  cried  the  little  man. 

"Punishment!"  echoed  Mrs.  Atkins.  "Well,  to 
be  sure,  little  as  you  are,  it  must  have  cramped  you 
terrible.     And  what's  so  very  droll,  I  never  felt  you." 

"But  I  felt  you  —  every  stitch,"  said  the  manikin, 
and  he  seemed  to  wince  at  the  recollection.  "  How- 
ever, to  finish  my  story.  You  must  know  that, 
although  I  talked  to  the  last  day  of  my  life  about  the 
duties  of  the  rich,  and  the  rights  of  the  poor  — 
although  now  and  then,  for  the  look  of  the  thing,  my 
name  sparkled  in  a  guinea  subscription  for  a  Home  for 
the  Homeless,  or  some  such  public  benevolence,  I 
would  buy  —  buy  where  I  might  —  I  would  buy  cheap. 
Every  shilling  saved,  I  considered  as  a  new  victory 
over  the  extravagance  of  trade.  It  was-  not  for  me  to 
inquire  about  wages  —  it  was  no  part  of  my  economy 
to  be  assured  that  the  journeyman  could  get  his 
shoulder  of  mutton  and  potatoes" 

"  Shoulder    of    mutton    and   potatoes ! "    exclaimed 
Mrs.    Atkins,    as    though    she    spoke    of  the    culinary 
3* 


30  A    XHIMBLE-FULL    OF    EOMANCE. 


marvels  of  Mahomet's  Paradise  —  "Well,  to  be  sure, 
we  had  a  bit  of  beef  yesterday,  but  before  then  " 

"  I  cared  not  if  you,  and  such  as  you,  lived  upon 
bran  and  water,  if  cheapness  were  in  the  stitches  of 
my  coat  —  if  my  heart,  my  philanthropic  heart,  beat 
beneath  a  waistcoat  that,  for  economy  of  cost,  defied 
competition." 

"  More  shame  for  you,"  said  the  tailor's  wife. 
"  Talking  of  waistcoats,  what  do  you  think  I  get  for 
that  blue  thing  there  ?  " 

"  Starvation !  "  answered  the  manikin ;  "  for  I  see, 
fine  as  it  is  —  oh,  I  know  the  sort  of  thing  noio  —  I 
see  it  is  one  of  the  glories  of  prime  cost  that  defy 
competition.  A  pretty  breastplate  of  defiance,"  said 
the  little  man,  "  and  well  is  such  defiance  punished," 

"  How  punished  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Atkins. 

"That's  it  —  that's  the  marrow  of  my  story.  That 
is  the  why  and  the  wherefore  that  I  am  here.  At  this 
moment  —  now,  woman,  attend  to  me,  for  what  I  have 
to  say  is  worth  the  hearing  —  at  this  moment  —  there 
are  the  ghosts  of  not  less  than  ten  thousand  men  and 
women  —  excellent  persons  when  alive  ;  the  very  pink 
of  goodness,  with  delicate  white  satin  feelings,  as  one 
may  say  —  ten  thousand  spirits  condemned  for  a  certain 
time  to  be  imprisoned  in  thimbles." 


A    IHIMBLE-rtJLL    OF    ROMANCE.  31 

"  In  thimbles !  "  exclaimed  the  tailor's  wife. 

"  In  thimbles,"  repeated  the  miniature  of  the 
departed  Poor  Man's  Friend.  "And  their  prison  is 
far  worse  than  the  brazen  dungeon  in  which  Solomon 
shuts  up  his  genii ;  for  they,  at  least,  are  not  mocked 
with  an  open  cell  —  with  a  promise  of  liberty  never, 
until  the  appointed  time  be  come,  to  be  obtained. 
Now  the  victims  of  the  thimble  may  not  budge.  They 
have  employed  the  cheapest  thimble  when  alive,  and 
the  cheapest  thimble  is  for  a  time  their  punishment 
when  dead.  My  time  is  up,  and  my  wounds  are 
healing  —  but  how,  for  these  ten  long  years" 

"  That's  just  about  the  time  —  not  quite  —  Tom 
and  I  have  worked  for  " 

"For  my  tailor  that  was,"  said  the  manikin. 
"  How,  for  the  time,  have  you  tortured  me ! " 

"I  —  I  couldn't  do  it,"  cried  Mrs.  Atkins,  sharply. 

"You  couldn't  help  it  —  'twas  your  duty  and  my 
fate.  Thus,  for  every  stitch  you  took,  I  felt  your 
needle-head  go  clean  into  what  seemed  my  flesh. 
And  my  sense  of  feeling  was  sharpened  into  spiritual 
suffering.  For  fourteen  hours  a-day,  have  I  felt  — 
incessantly  felt  —  the  punctures  of  the  tormenting 
steel.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  little  daggers 
piercing   me    through   and    through,    and    with    every 


32  A    THIMBLE-FTJLL    OF    KOMANCE. 

stitcli,  a  jerk  that  seemed  to  snatch  at  every 
nerve." 

"  Mercy  on  us !  "  cried  the  tailor's  wife. 

"Ah,  mercy  on  us,"  said  the  little  man.  "  But  we 
ask  mercy  in  vain  who  have  had  no  mercy  on  others. 
Live  and  let  starve,  was  my  inner  creed ;  it's  a  wicked 
religion,  Mrs.  Atkins,  and  carries  its  after-punishment. 
And  depend  upon  it,  they  who,  without  care  for  the 
comforts,  for  the  necessities  of  the  workers,  will  have 
only  the  cheapest  work,  big  as  their  names  may  sound, 
and  large  as  their  presence  in  the  world  may  be,  — 
their  souls  dwell  in  a  thimble." 

And  here  the  little  man  vanished,  and  the  Dutch 
clock  struck  twelve,  and  Atkins  with  a  brightened  face, 
with  a  child  in  either  hand,  and  two  following,  came 
home  to  dinner.  Now  Avhether  Mrs.  Atkins  did,  or 
did  not,  tell  to  her  husband  her  interview  with  the 
manikin,  is  not  here,  or  elsewhere,  the  business  of 

EED   RIDING   HOOD 


'TIS    BETTER    NOT    TO    KNOW 

BONO,    BY   SAMUEL   LOVER. 

You  say  you  love  me  —  can  I  trust 

That  she,  by  many  woo'd, 
By  me,  at  length,  has  had  her  heart 

To  constancy  subdued  ? 
Perchance  some  other  love  is  there  — 

But  do  not  tell  me  so :  — 
Since  knowledge  would  but  bring  me  grief, 

'Tis  better  not  to  know. 

Perchance  that  eye  has  beamed  with  love 

In  days  I  knew  not  thee. 
That  ruby  lip  hath  bent  in  smiles 

For  others  than  for  me ; 
But  let  that  lip,  still,  silence  keep, 

I'll  trust  its  love-like  show :  — 
Since  knowledge  would  but  bring  me  grief, 

'Tis  better  not  to  know. 


34  'us    BETTEK    NOT    TO    KNOW, 

Oh !  what  a  simj  .e  fondness  mine  — 

Wliose  wislies  make  its  creed ; 
But  let  me  thmk  you  love  me  still, 

And  I'll  be  blest  indeed! 
'Tis  better  that  the  eye  ne'er  see  ^ 

Than  ttiat  its  tears  should  flow :  — 
When  knowledge  would  but  bring  us  grief, 

'Tis  better  not  to  know. 


MUSIC    AS    AN    ACCOMPLISHMENT. 

BY  GEOKGB  HOGARTH,    ESO. 

Music  is  peculiarly  a  female  accomplishinent.  When 
cultivated  with  regard  to  its  true  nature  and  its  real 
purpose,  it  brings  into  view  some  of  the  finest  features 
of  woman's  mind,  and  contributes  to  the  fulfilment  of 
one  part,  at  least,  of  woman's  mission  —  that  of  shed- 
ding a  softening  and  refining  influence  over  human 
society.  It  is  not  by  brilliant  displays  of  artistic 
acquirement  and  skill,  that  music  exerts  its  power  in 
the  circles  of  private  life ;  it  is  in  its  simpler  forms, 
and  by  its  melody,  its  grace,  its  expression,  and  the 
additional  charm  with  which  it  clothes  sweet  and 
pathetic  poetry,  that  it  arrests  the  attention  and 
touches  the  heart.  And  this  is  the  case,  as  much  in 
the  gay  and  fashionable  party  as  in  the  privacy  of  the 
domestic  fire-side ;  though  it  is  in  the  latter  situation 
that  Music  appears  in  her  fairest  aspect,  and  bestows 
her  best  blessings. 

% 


3kj  music  as  an  accomplishmexx. 

Music  is  at  present  deprived  of  most  of  its  charms 
and  most  of  its  benefits  by  its  end  being  mistaken. 
It  is  regarded  as  the  means  of  display,  and  with  this 
view  its  tuition  is  almost  entirely  conducted.  Ladies 
leam  to  sing,  and  to  play  on  the  pianoforte  and  the 
harp,  in  order  that  they  may  "show  off"  when  they 
go  into  company.  They  spend  an  inordinate  quantity 
of  time,  labor,  and  expense,  in  the  acquirement  of  this 
one  accomplishment ;  they  give  enormous  sums  to 
fashionable  teachers,  who  make  fortunes  out  of  the 
prevailing  folly ;  they  practise  three  or  four  hours 
a  day  for  years  together,  to  the  neglect  of  more  im- 
portant and  necessary  studies ;  and  what,  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten,  is  the  result  ?  When  a  young  lady, 
thus  "  highly  accomplished,"  brings  her  dearly-bought 
accomplishment  into  action,  what  does  it  avail  her? 
She  is,  naturally  enough,  eager  to  display  that  which 
she  has  made  it  the  chief  business  of  her  life  to  attain ; 
and  consequently  makes  a  point  of  singing  and  playing 
as  much  as  possible  whenever  she  can  find  an  audience. 
Poor  girl !  she  is  little  aware  how  thanklessly  her 
efibrts  are  received.  Instead  of  admiration  she  excites 
nothing  but  ennui.  Her  bravura  of  Donizetti,  or 
fantasia  of  Thalberg,  is  the  signal  for  a  general  buzz 
of  conversation,  which  she  alone   is   too  preoccupied 


MUSIC    AS    AN    ACCOMPLISHMENT.  37 

to  hear ;  or,  if  a  sense  of  politeness  imposes  silence 
as  a  duty,  the  constraint  only  heightens  the  annoyance 
and  impatience  of  the  company.  When  the  elaborate 
performance  is  over,  it  is  followed  by  a  profusion  of 
thanks  and  compliments  ;  those  who  talked  the  loudest 
Avhile  it  lasted  being  the  loudest  also  in  professing  the 
delight  and  admiration  it  has  given  them.  The  fair 
musician's  vanity  is  flattered ;  and  she  goes  home  quite 
unaware  of  the  real  impression  she  has  made,  and 
perhaps  exulting  in  an  imagined  triumph  over  some 
less  successful  rival.  All  this  is  so  notorious,  that  a 
highly-educated  musical  lady  has  come  to  be  looked 
upon  as  a  bore,  and  music  itself  is  felt,  by  those  who 
suffer  from  its  inflictions,  to  be  a  social  nuisance. 

But  the  highly-educated  musical  lady,  who  "  bestows 
so  much  of  her  tediousness "  on  society,  is  more  to 
be  pitied  than  blamed.  She  is  the  hapless  victim  of 
a  course  of  education  which  not  only  fails  in  its  direct 
object,  but  by  precluding  her  from  pursuing  objects 
of  greater  moment,  tends  to  make  her  ignorant,  friv- 
olous, and  vain.  The  blame  rests  with  her  parents 
and  friends,  who  ought  to  have  sounder  views  of  what 
is  really  necessary  to  form  her  mind  and  promote  her 
happiness. 

It  ought  to  be  considered,  that  music  cannot,  in 
4 


38  MUSIC    AS    AN    ACCOilPXISHMEKT. 

private  society,  be  successfully  used  for  the  sake  of 
display.  In  the  present  state  of  the  art,  no  amateur 
performer  can  hope  to  excite  pleasure  or  admiration  by 
means  of  vocal  power  or  great  execution.  It  is  not 
now  as  it  was  once.  At  present,  such  is  the  variety 
of  public  concerts,  operas,  and  musical  performances  of 
every  kind,  that  the  great  body  of  the  public  are  quite 
accustomed  to  hear  the  principal  singers  and  instru- 
mentalists—  are  able  to  appreciate  their  qualities  and 
criticise  their  defects.  A  lady  in  a  drawing-room,  who 
sits  down  to  entertain  a  company  with  a  "  scena " 
from  an  Italian  opera,  or  a  brilliant  production  of 
some  fashionable  pianist,  ought  to  remember  that 
probably  every  body  in  the  room  has  heard  the  same 
piece  sung  by  Grisi  or  Jenny  Lind,  or  played  by 
Thalberg  or  Dulcken ;  and  that  she  is  exposing  herself 
to  an  unpleasant  comparison,  by  attempting  lamely  and 
imperfectly  what  the  company  have  heard  executed 
with  finished  excellence ;  and  this  will  be  the  case, 
even  though  she  may  be,  for  an  amateur,  a  really 
superior  performer.  But  the  truth  is,  that  not  one 
lady-amateur  in  a  thousand  who  makes  such  ambitious 
attempts,  can  acquit  herself  even  decently.  If  she 
sings,  it  is  a  thousand  to  one  that  she  strains  and 
forces  her  voice  out  of  all  tone  and  tune,  and  trans- 


MTJSIC    AS    AN    ACCOMPLISHMENT.  39 

forms  the  brilliant  roulades  of  the  composer  into  inar- 
ticulate screams ;  if  she  plays,  that  she  produces  a 
mere  clatter  of  unmeaning  noise  and  confusion.  And 
these  enormities  are  committed  bj'^  persons  who,  con- 
fining themselves  within  the  lihiits  of  their  own 
powers  and  attainments,  might  really  "  discourse  most 
eloquent  music,"  and  gratify  the  ears  as  well  as  touch 
the  feelings  of  their  listeners. 

It  is  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  best  music 
is  the  most  difficult  of  execution.  The  very  reverse, 
generally  speaking,  is  the  case.  Music  of  a  high  order 
certainly  demands  high  gifts  and  attainments  on  the 
part  of  the  performer.  But  the  gifts  of  nature  may 
be  possessed  by  the  amateur  as  well  as  by  the  pro- 
fessor ;  and  the  attainments  of  art  may  be  the  result 
of  moderate  study  and  application.  A  young  lady 
possessed  of  a  sweet  and  tunable  voice,  a  good  ear, 
intelligence,  and  feeling,  may  cultivate  music  in  its 
grandest  and  most  beautiful  forms,  and  may  render 
its  practice  a  source  of  the  purest  enjoyment,  not  only 
to  herself  but  to  her  domestic  and  social  circle. 

Many  ladies  do  this,  but  they  have  not  been  fashion- 
ably educated.  Sense  and  reason,  not  the  prevailing 
example,  have  been  consulted  in  their  studies,  and  the 
result  has   made   them  really  accomplished  musicians. 


40  MT7SIC    AS    AN    ACCOMPLISHMEKT. 

In  order  to  become  so,  every  natural  gift  must  be 
cultivated  by  solid  instruction.  The  principles  of  the 
art  must  be  well  understood.  The  rules  of  harmony 
and  composition  must  be  studied  so  far  as  to  enable 
the  pupil,  if  not  to  compose,  to  comprehend  the  designs 
of  the  composer,  and  the  technical  means  whereby  he 
produces  his  effects.  The  voice  must  be  strengthened 
and  purified,  ungainly  habits  must  be  removed,  and 
distinct  utterance  and  elocution  acquired.  The  mind 
must^e  opened,  and  the  taste  exalted  and  refined,  by 
acquaintance  with  the  finest  productions  of  the  art  — 
an  acquaintance  which  ought  to  extend  from  the 
Oratorio  of  Handel  to  the  national  ballad.  With  the 
young  pianist  a  similar  course  should  be  pursued. 
A  correct  method  of  fingering,  and  a  familiarity  with 
the  scale  in  every  variety  of  key,  must  be  imparted 
at  the  outset ;  and  this  vvdll  give  a  command  of  the 
instrument  quite  sufficient  for  every  purpose  of  an 
amateur  performer. 

A  lady  so  educated  is  far  above  making  music  the 
means  of  frivolous  display.  She  never  commits  the 
folly  of  endeavoring  to  rival  professional  artists  in  the 
achievement  of  tours  de  force,  and  thus  exciting  ridi- 
cule instead  of  admiration,  and  causing  weariness 
instead  of  pleasure.     She  select?  Vier  music  from  every 


MUSIC    AS    AN    ACCOMPLISHMENT.  41 

hrdiich  of  the  art,  choosing  what  she  knows  to  be 
suitable  to  her  powers,  and  what  her  taste  tells  her 
is  intrinsically  good  and  beautiful.  In  such  music 
she  may  feel  without  vanity  (and  her  hearers  will 
feel  so  too),  that  she  subjects  herself  to  no  disparaging 
contrasts ;  and  a  well-grounded  but  modest  confidence 
will  enable  her  to  do  justice  to  her  own  talents.  Such 
a  singer  will  bo  at  no  loss  for  resources.  She  will  find 
them  in  the  works  of  every  school  in  Europe,  not 
excepting  even  (when  discreetly  chosen)  the  geins  of 
the  modern  Italian  and  German  stage.  She  will  be 
able  to  give  power  to  the  inspired  strains  of  Handel, 
grace  to  the  charming  melodies  of  Mozart,  and  truth 
and  pathos  to  the  simplest  effusion  of  the  rustic  muse 
of  Ireland  or  Scotland. 

Concerted  music,  both  vocal  and  instrumental,  is 
getting  more  and  more  into  use,  in  society.  It  is  no 
unusual  thing  to  see  a  small  party  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen  grouped  round  the  pianoforte,  and  engaged 
in  singing  the  duets,  trios,  and  quartets  of  some  fine 
Italian,  German,  or  English  opera ;  and  the  chamber 
trios  and  quartets  of  Mozart,  Beethoven,  Hummel, 
Reissiger,  etc.,  for  the  pianoforte,  violin,  flute,  and 
violincello,  give  a  delightful  variety  to  the  enjoyments 
of  a  social  musical  evening.  On  these  occasions  the 
4* 


i2  MirSIC    AS    AN    ACCOMPLISHMENT, 

most  prominent  parts  of  the  performance  fall  to  tlie 
ladies ;  and  those  ladies  only*-,  can  acquit  themselves 
with  intelligence,  steadiness,  and  effect,  who  have  had 
a  sound  and  substantial  musical  education.  The 
dashing  bravura  singer,  and  the  pianist  who  aspires 
to  emulate  Thalberg,  are  helpless  and  useless  in  music 
like  this.  In  their  vain  endeavors  to  gain  the  power 
of  dazzling  and  astonishing,  by  exhibitions  of  vocal 
and  manual  agility,  they  have  wasted  ten  times  the 
amount  of  toil  that  would  have  enabled  them  to  join 
in  those  musical  conversations  which  abound  in  the 
fairest  flowers  of  genius,  and  the  richest  treasures  of 
art,  —  conversations  which  afford  delightful  pastime  to 
those  who  carry  them  on,  and,  when  supported  with 
grace,  spirit,  and  feeling,  never  fail  to  engage  the 
animated  attention  of  the  listener. 

We  are  not  to  suppose,  however,  that  music,  like 
reading  and  writing,  "  comes  by  nature."  Nature 
supplies  the  requisite  gifts ;  and  when  these  are 
wanting,  it  is  best  not  to  attempt  the  pursuit.  What 
can  be  more  absurd  and  more  pitiable,  than  to  see 
an  unfortunate  victim  of  fashion  condemned  to  scream 
and  thump  the  keys  of  the  piano  for  several  miserable 
hours  daily,  without  voice,  ear,  inclination,  or  the 
slightest  hope  of  success,  while  some  fine  talent  tliat 


MUSIC    AS    AN    ACCOMPLISHMENT.  43 

sTie  really  possesses  is  left  wholly  neglected  ?  When 
the  natural  gifts  do  exist,  it  requires  careful  and  judi- 
cious cultivation  to  render  them  productive  of  fruit. 
In  this  fastidious  age,  even  the  simplest  music  demands 
a  pure  style  and  nice  execution;  and  the  presence  or 
absence  of  these  will  be  apparent  even  in  the  perform- 
ance of  a  ballad  or  a  waltz.  But,  so  much  being 
necessary,  it  is  the  more  essential  that  the  youthful 
pupil  should  be  spared  what  is  not  necessary ;  and  it 
is  any  thing  but  necessary  to  lead  her  to  seek  the 
gratification  of  vanity  —  and  to  find  nothing  but  dis- 
appointment and  mortification  —  by  emulating  the 
mechanical  achievements  of  professional  artists. 


CROSSING    THE    FERRY. 

(^FKOM     THE     GERMAN.] 

BY  DORA  GE.EEN'WELL. 

I  cKossED  this  Ferry  once  before. 
All  looks  as  then  it  looked  of  yore ; 
Before  me  still,  in  evening's  gleam, 
The  Castle  shines  above  the  stream. 

But  not  within  this  boat,  as  then, 
Two  dear  companions  cross  again, — 
A  Friend,  a  Father,  —  one  in  truth ; 
The  other  rich  in  hope  and  youth. 

One  wrought  on  earth  in  quiet,  he 
Departed  also  silently ; 
The  other  foremost  rushed,  to  fall 
In  storm  and  struggle  first  of  all. 


CKOSSING    THE    FERKT.  45 

Thus  when  my  musing  fancy  strays 
To  thoughts  of  earlier,  happier  days, 
Must  I  the  dear  companions  miss 
That  Death  has  snatched  away  from  this. 

Yet,  what  so  close  binds  friend  to  friend 
As  soul  with  kindred  soul  to  blend  ? 
Those  hours  that  fled  like  spirits  past 
Still  link  me  unto  spirits  fast ! 

Then  take,  oh  !  boatman,  take  the  fee 
That  threefold  noAv  I  tell  to  thee. 
With  willing  hand,  for  spirits  twain 
Have  crossed  the  stream  with  me  again  1 


"ANGELINA'S    FAINTED!" 

BT   RED   RIDIN&   HOOD. 

The  talk  was  of  Hottentots  — 

"  Don't  speak  of  'em,"  cried  Miss  Angelina  Dafiy, 
•'  I'm  certain  of  it  —  if  I  were  only  to  look  at  a 
Hottentot,  I  should  faint  —  I  must  faint." 

"  Fiddledee  !  "  said  Miss  Lilly  white  ;  and  there 
was  a  hush  —  a  pause  in  the  conversation ;  for  when 
Miss  Lillywhite  exclaimed  "  Fiddledee ! "  it  behoved 
thoughtless  young  ladies  to  look  to  themselves.  Now, 
Miss  Daffy  had  a  great  talent  for  fainting.  Perhaps 
the  talent  was  originally  a  natural  gift ;  nevertheless, 
it  could  not  be  denied  that  a  frequent  and  earnest 
cultivation  of  the  endowment  had  brought  it  to  per- 
fection. Miss  Daffy,  at  one  minute's  notice,  could 
faint  at  any  time,  and  upon  any  subject.  She  could 
faint  at  either  extreme  of  the  day  —  faint  at  breakfast, 
or  faint  at  supper ;  could  faint  with  equal  beauty  and 
truthfulness,   whether   the   matter   to   be   fainted  upon 


"Angelina's  faintjed!"  47 

were  a  black  beetle,  or  a  blackbird  —  a  bull  or  a 
bullfincli.  She  had  wonderful  powers  of  syncope ; 
though,  it  must  be  allowed,  like  most  folks  haunted 
with  a  despotic  sense  of  their  own  genius,  she  now 
and  then  employed  it  a  little  out  of  place.  Vanity, 
however,  is  a  human  weakness.  For  a  philosopher, 
to  his  own  satisfaction,  has  proved,  that  the  peacock 
takes  no  pride  in  its  own  effulgent  glories,  but,  all 
unconscious  of  their  beauty,  spreads  them  because  it 
was  ordained  to  do  so ;  and,  after  all,  had  Miss  Daffy 
been  philosophically  examined  upon  her  proneness  to 
faint,  she  would  have  attributed  the  habit  to  no  self- 
complacency,  but  to  the  simple  but  inevitable  truth 
that  she  was  made  to  faint.  She  would  not  have 
recognized  any  beauty  in  the  art  of  fainting,  but 
merely  the  natural  consequence  that  to  faint  was 
feminine.  Eve,  she  thought,  was  made  for  sal- 
volatile. 

Miss  Lillywhite  was  a  spinster  of  seven-and-forty, 
"I  am  six  —  seven  —  eight-and-forty,  next  birth-day," 
Miss  Lillywhite  would  blithely  observe,  as  the  year 
might  be.  And  this  gay  veracity  was  the  more 
pleasing  in  Miss  Lillywhite,  inasmuch  as  she  might 
have  passed  for  forty ;  nay,  had  she  stickled  ever  so 
little  for  it,  she  might  have  got  off  with  six-and- thirty 


48  "ANGELI^'AS    FAIls'TED. 

at  most — a  happy,  blooming  six-and-thirty  ;  for  Miss 
Lillywhite,  like  a  true  Englishwoman,  can-ied  in  her 
unfading  beauty  the  assertion  of  her  British  race. 
How  much  triumphant  beauty  all  Over  the  world  fades 
and  yields,  as  teens  blow  into  twenties,  as  twenties 
wrinkle  into  thirties !  Now,  your  truly  beautiful 
Englishwoman,  with  her  carnations  and  lilies,  will 
carry  her  colors  up  to  two-score-and-ten.  Nay,  we 
have  known  some  veterans,  blooming  with  a  sprinkling 
of  years  over  tyrannous  fifty.  And  Miss  Lillywhite 
was  as  jocund  as  she  was  handsome.  It  is  said, 
there  is  no  better  preservative  against  the  melancholy 
changes  wrought  by  time  than  honey.  We  know  not 
whether  Miss  Lillywhite  was  acquainted  with  the 
Egyptian  truth :  if  not,  she  had  unconsciously  acted 
dpon  the  unknown  recipe,  and  had  preserved  herself  in 
the  sweetness  of  her  disposition  —  in  the  honey  of 
her  goodness.  She  was  a  pattern  old  maid.  Yet  a 
pattern,  we  would  hope,  never  to  be  followed ;  for  it 
is  such  women  who  make  the  real  wives  and  mothers. 
Miss  Lillywhite,  like  Miss  Venus  de  Medicis,  should 
remain  a  single  perfection :  alone  in  sweetness  and 
beauty,  to  show  what  celibacy  and  art  can  do ;  to  be 
idmired  as  samples,  but  never  to  be  added  to. 
Miss   Lillywhite  was    an    old    schoolfellow  of  Mrs 


"Angelina's  tainted!"  49 

Daffy's,  and  was  passing  the  Christmas-time  with  hei 
early  friend  and  family.  Now  Angelina  Daffy  —  e 
pretty  creature,  with  more  goodness  in  her  than  she 
dreamed  of — had,  as  we  have  indicated,  this  weak- 
ness ;  she  must  faint :  and  carrying  out  this  will,  as 
a  first  principle,  she  had  duly  fainted  through  the 
whole  round  of  the  holidays.  She  had  fainted  at 
snap-dragons  on  Christmas-eve  —  fainted,  very  emphat- 
ically fainted,  when  surprised  under  the  mistletoe  on 
Christmas-day  —  fainted  when  the  bells  rang  in  1850 
—  and  fainted,  dead  as  a  stone,  as  a  nervous  guest 
declared,  when  prevailed  upon  to  crack  a  bon-bon  on 
Twelfth-night.  "Angelina's  fainted!"  had  become 
household  words  in  the  homestead  of  the  Datfys. 

And  so,  can  it  be  wondered  at  that  the  ingenuous 
Miss  Lilly  white,  at  this  last  threat  of  Angelina's,  to 
faint  at  a  Hottentot  —  should  rebuke  the  maiden  with 
more  than  ordinary  vivacity  ?  The  truth  is.  Miss 
Lillywhite  had  been  much  provoked :  even  on  the 
previous  Sunday,  when  Angelina  had  menaced  to 
faint  at  the  clergyman  —  a  very  handsome,  meek 
young  man,  who  preached  a  maiden  sermon  with  great 
promise  of  preferment  —  Miss  Lillywhite  could  only 
scold  the  maiden  into  firmness,  by  threatening  to  give 
her  up,  unattended,  to  the  care  of  the  beadle.  Therc- 
6 


•,0  "Angelina's  fainted!" 

fore,  when  Angelina,  returning  to  her  weakness, 
expressed  herself  ready  to  go  off  at  the  very  look  of 
a  Hottentot  —  therefore,  all  previous  provocation  con- 
sidered, can  it  be  wondered  at  that  the  patience  of 
Miss  Lillywhite  fairly  exploded  with  —  "Fiddledee?" 
We  think  not;  and  take  up  the  stitch  of  our  little 
story. 

"Fiddledee!"  said  Miss  Lillywhite. 

Miss  Angelina  looked  surprised  —  amazed  —  and 
gradually  became  very  deeply  wounded.  At  first,  she 
raised  her  eyes  towards  Miss  Lillywhite  as  though 
doubtful  of  the  truth  of  her  impressions ;  but  the  set, 
stern  features  of  Miss  Lillywhite  —  if  you  can  couple 
the  expression  of  sternness  with  the  thought  of  a  clear, 
bright  open  face,  bright  and  clear  as  Dresden  china  — 
convinced  Angelina  that  it  was  the  lady  visitor  who 
had  really  spoken.  What,  under  the  new  and  painful 
circumstance,  could  Angelina  do  ?  Why,  she  fell  back 
upon  the  strength  of  her  weakness  :  she  instantly  made 
an  ostentatious  preparation  to  faint.  Her  eyelids  were 
slightly  tremulous  —  she  swallowed  one  sob — her  neck 
took  one  swan-like  curve,  and  —  and,  in  another 
second,  there  would  have  been  the  old,  old  cry  of 
the  house  of  Daffy  —  "Angelina's  fainted!" 

But 


"Angelina's  fainted!"  61 

Miss  Lillywhite  jumped  from  her  chair,  and  reso- 
lutely passing  Mrs.  DafFy,  made  direct  to  tlie  sufferer, 
who,  half  conscious  of  the  attempted  rescue,  was 
fainting  all  the  faster.  "Angelina,"  cried  Miss  Lilly- 
white,  v/ith  a  restorative  shake,  "this  is  aflfectation  — 
folly  —  hypocrisy  —  nonsense  !  " 

Miss  Angelina  Daffy  opened  ho  orbs,  and  in  a 
moment  sat  upright,  with  her  prettily  cut  nostril 
dilated,  and  the  tear  that  was  coming  into  her  aston- 
ished eyes  almost  frozen,  and  indeed,  altogether,  in 
such  a  state  of  amazement  that  she  must  —  no,  she 
would  not  faint ;  it  was  not  a  time  to  faint,  when  so 
cruelly  offended. 

Miss  Lillywhite  drew  her  chair  beside  Angelina, 
who  was  every  moment  hardening  in  dignity.  "  My 
dear  child,"  said  Miss  Lillywhite,  "  you  must  give 
up  fainting  —  it's  gone  out  of  fashion." 

"  Fashion,  Miss  Lillywhite !  Do  you  think  that 
feelings  " 

"  Fiddledee  i  "  again  repeated  Miss  Lillywhite  ;  and 
Angelina  sternly  resolved  not  to  say  another  word  to 
so  strange  a  person  —  to  so  unpolite  a  visitor.  Angelina 
crossed  her  arms  in  resignation,  determining  —  since 
her  mamma  would  not  interfere  —  to  suffer  in  silence- 
Miss  Lillywhite  might  be  rude  —  might  say  her  worst. 


52  "Angelina's  fainted!" 

"When  I  was  eighteen,  your  age,"  said  Misa 
Lillywhite,  "  and  that,  my  dear,  is  nearly  thirty  years 
ago,  I  used  to  faint,  too.  I  enjoyed  fainting  very 
much ;  indeed,  my  dear,  I  question  if  ever  you  take 
greater  pleasure  in  fainting  than  I  did." 

"  Pleasure  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Angelina.  Who  could 
remain  dumb  un§er  such  an  imputation? 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  it  —  pleasure,  my  dear," 
said  the  remorseless  Miss  Lillywhite.  "  You  see,  it 
gave  me  a  little  consequence ;  it  drew  upon  me  general 
notice ;  it  made  me,  as  it  were,  the  centre  of  a  picture ; 
and  it  was  a  pleasure  —  not  a  healthful  one,  certainly, 
but  still  a  pleasure  —  to  enjoy  so  much  sympathy  about 
one.  To  hear,  whilst  I  was  in  the  fit  —  I  don't  know, 
my  dear,  whether  you  hear,  when  fainting,  quite  as 
well  as  I  did  —  to  hear  expressions  of  concern,  and 
pity,  and  admiration,  and  —  do  you  hear  them  dis- 
tinctly ?  "  Angelina  could  not  answer  such  a  question : 
she  could  only  look  lightning  —  harmless,  summer- 
lightning  —  at  Miss  Lillywhite,  who  inexorably  con- 
tinued. "I  can  confess  it  now  —  I  used  to  enjoy  the 
excitement,  and  therefore  went  off  upon  every  reason- 
able opportunity.  It  was  very  wrong,  but  there  was 
something  pleasant,  exciting  in  the  words  '  Miss 
Lillywhite's  fainted ! '     Oh,  I  can  remember  them,  my 


"Angelina's  fainted!"  53 

dear,  as  though  it  was  only  yesterday.  But,  my  love," 
said  the  cruel  spinster,  taking  the  young  maid's  hand 
between  her  own,  and  looking  so  benignly,  and 
speaking  so  sweetly  —  "but,  my  love,  we  may  faint 
once  too  often." 

Angelina  was  very  much  offended  —  deeply  hurt  that 
Miss  Lillywhite  should  for  a  moment  associate  her  own 
past  affectation  with  the  real  existing  weakness  then 
and  there  before  her.  Nevertheless,  there  was  such 
quietness,  such  truthfulness,  and  withal  such  an  aii 
of  whim  in  the  looks,  and  words,  and  manner  of  the 
elderly  spinster,  that  the  young  one  gradually  resigned 
herself  to  her  monitress. 

"  We  may  faint  once  too  often,"  repeated  Miss 
Lillywhite,  and  she  sighed;  and  then  her  customary 
smile  beamed  ahout  her.  "  Of  this  dreary  truth  am 
I  a  sad  example." 

"  You !  Miss  Lillywhite  !  "  said  Angelina. 

"Listen,"  said  the  old  maid.  " 'Tis  a  short  story ; 
but  worth  your  hearing.  When  I  was  nineteen,  I  was 
about  to  be  married.  About,  did  I  say  ?  Why,  the 
day  was  fixed  ;  I  was  in  my  bridal  dress ;  at  the  altar  : 
the  ring,  the  wedding-ring  at  the  very  tip  of  my  fingei 
when" 

"Mercy  me!"  cried  Angelina,  "what  happened?" 
5* 


54  "Angelina's  fainted!" 

"  I  fainted,"  said  Miss  Lillywhite,  and  she  shook 
tier  head,  and  a  wan  smile  played  about  her  lips. 

"And  you  were  not  married  because  you  fainted?" 
said  Angelina,  much  awakened  to  the  subject. 

"As  I  have  confessed,  it  was  my  weakness  to  faint 
upon  all  occasions.  I  enjoyed  the  interest  that,  as  I 
thought,  fainting  cast  about  me.  My  lover  often 
looked  coldly  —  suspiciously  ;  but  love  conquered  his 
doubts,  and  led  him  triumphantly  before  the  parson. 
Well,  the  marriage-service  was  begun,  and" 

"  Do  go  on,"  cried  Angelina. 

"  And  in  a  few  minutes  I  should  have  been  a  wife, 
when  I  thought  I  must  faint.  It  would  seem  very 
bold  of  me  in  such  a  situation  not  to  faint.  I,  who 
had  fainted  on  so  many  occasions,  not  to  swoon  at  the 
altar  would  have  been  a  want  of  sentiment  —  of  proper 
feeling,  on  so  awful  an  occasion.  With  this  thought,  I 
felt  mj'self  fainting  rapidly  ;  and  just  as  the  bridegroom 
had  touched  my  finger  with  the  ring,  —  I  went  off; 
yes,  my  dear,  swooned  with  all  the  honors." 

"  Do  go  on,"  again  cried  Angelina. 

"As  I  swooned,  the  ring  slipped  from  the  bride- 
groom's fingers,  fell  upon  the  stove,  and  was  rolling  — 
rolling  —  to  drop  through  the  aperture  of  the  stove 
that,  from  below,  admitted  heat  to  the  church,  when  — 


"Angelina's  fainted!"  55 

though  swooning  —  I  somehow  saw  the  danger,  and, 
to  stop  the  ring,  put  forth  ray  foot." 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Angelina. 

"  Too  late  —  the  ring  rolled  on  —  disappeared  down 
the  chimney  of  the  stove,  —  and  then  I  fainted  with 
the  greatest  fidelity.  Hartshori  and  sal-volatile  came 
to  my  aid.  I  was  restored  —  but  where  was  the  ring  ? 
'Twas  hopeless  to  seek  for  it.  Half-a-dozen  other  rings 
were  proffered  ;  but  no  —  it  would  be  an  evil  omen  — 
there  would  be  no  happiness,  if  I  Avere  not  wedded 
with  my  own  ring.  Well,  search  was  made  —  and 
time  flew  —  and,  we  were  late  at  church  to  begin 
with  —  and  the  ring  was  not  found  when  the  church- 
clock  struck  twelve." 

"  Well !  "  said  Angelina, 

"Well!"  sighed  Miss  Lillywhite,  "the  clergyman, 
closing  his  book,  said,  '  It  is  past  the  canonical  hour ; 
the  parties  cannot  be  married  to-day ;  they  must  come 
again  to-morrow." 

"  Dreadful !  "  exclaimed  Angelina. 

"  We  returned  home  ;  my  lover  upbraided  —  I 
retorted ;  we  had  a  shocking  quarrel,  and  —  he  left 
the  house  to  write  me  a  farewell  letter.  In  a  week 
he  was  on  his  voyage  to  India ;  in  a  twelvemonth  he 
had  married   an   Indian  lady,  as  rich  as  an  idol,  and 


56  "Angelina's  fainted!" 

I — after   thirty  years  —  am  still   Caroline  Lilly  white, 
spinster." 

It  is  very  strange.  From  the  time  of  the  ahove 
narrative  there  were  two  words  never  again  breathed 
beneath  the  roof-tree  of  the  Daffys.  And  these 
unuttered  words  were  — 

"  Angelina's  fainted ! " 


iri  w  omiiu  Ot . 


gF^0R3iQ    J@¥Sa 


SPUING    ^OYS. 

BY    C.     W.    0. 

Like  the  sweet  whisperings 

Of  some  blessed  spirit. 
From  the  immortal  world 

The  good  inherit, 
Are  these  delicious  airs, 

This  breath  of  Spring, 
Whispering  of  coming  bloom 

On  zephyr's  wing. 

But  many  a  stormy  day 

Perchance  may  rise. 
Ere  Spring  descend  on  earth. 

From  azure  skies : 
And  many  a  cutting  blast 

May  blight  the  bud. 
And  shake,  with  sullen  howl, 

The  flashing  wood. 


^8  SPRIIfG    JOYS. 

Then,  while  the  prosperous  gales 

Of  Fortune  blow, 
While  Pleasure  takes  the  helm 

And  Youth  the  prow, 
Think  not.  too  happy  one ! 

That  joy  shall    be 
Always  as  bria;ht  as  now 

It  shines  on  thee! 


THE    CHATELAINE; 


OR,     "put     it     down     in     the     BIIiL." 


BY  S.   N. 

"  Now,  my  dearest  Agnes,  do  look !  Here  is  the 
most  exquisite  little  basket  I  ever  saw." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there ;  at  the  end  of  that  chatelaine.  Oh,  I 
positively  must  have  it.  You  know  I  really  want  one, 
Agnes.  One  of  the  swivels  of  my  chatelaine  came 
undone  the  other  day,  and  all  the  things  dropped  off. 
I  found  two  again,  to  be  sure  ;  but  still,  that's  not 
enough.  Come,  Agnes,  let  us  just  go  in,  and  ask  the 
price,  at  any  rate." 

The  two  girls  entered  the  shop,  and  their  footman 
remained  outside. 

"  Agnes,"  continued  Rosalie,  "  look !  Here  is 
a  bracelet  that  would  just  suit  mamma.  It  was 
but  the  other  day  she  was  saying  she  wanted   one 


60  THE    CHATELAINE. 

How  beautiful  it  is  !  What  is  the  price  of  it,  Mr. 
Ne'wman  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  man,  taking  up  the  bracelet. 
"  Six  pounds  ten,  Miss." 

"  Well ;  that  really  is  not  much.  Is  it,  Agnes, 
considering  how  beautiful  it  is.  And  how  much  is 
that  little  basket?" 

"  Thirteen  shillings.  Miss.     Solid  gold." 

"And  how  beautifully  chased  it  is!"  observed 
Agnes. 

"  Well,  Agnes,"  said  Rosalie,  "  I  think  I  must  have 
it.  It's  true,  I  have  not  any  money  left ;  but  I'm  sure 
I  can  make  mamma  give  it  me.  Besides,  if  we  get 
the  man  to  put  it  down,  she  must  have  it ;  —  and  it's 
not  like  ready  money,  you  know.  We  have  a  bill 
here,  and  it  won't  make  much  different.  Indeed,  she 
does  want  a  new  bracelet  dreadfully ;  and,  somehow, 
she  never  will  buy  expensive  things  for  herself,  unless 
I  have  them  set  down;  and  then,  you  know,  she  is 
obliged  to  keep  them." 

Agnes  Blandford  was  one  of  a  large  family,  carefully 
educated  not  to  be  extravagant  herself,  and  trusted 
with  very  little  pocket-money ;  but  she  had  a.  bound- 
less idea  of  the  wealth  of  mammas  in  general  (Rosalie's 
in  particular),  and  thought  it  a  most  excellent  thing  if 


THE    CHATELAINE.  61 

they  could  be  inveigled  into  buying  any  thing :  tliey 
having,  as  a  race,  a  marvellous  propensity  to  covetous- 
ness,  which  must  be  carefully  checked  by  their  daugh- 
ters. Rosalie  was  of  the  same  opinion.  She  also  had 
no  pocket-money  regularly  allowed  her,  but  lived  upon 
mamma,  getting  five  pounds  from  time  to  time,  when- 
ever poor  mamma  was  in  a  weak  mood,  and  would 
suffer  herself  to  be  coaxed  over. 

"  Then,  you'll  send  them  this  evening,  about  eight, 
Mr.  Newman,  if  you  please,"  said  Rosalie;  and  the 
two  girls  left  the  shop,  both  thinking  they  had  done 
a  very  clever  and  virtuous  action. 

Rosalie's  parents,  the  Hargraves,  lived  in  great 
style ;  they  appeared  both  rich  and  fashionable  — 
fashionable  they  might  be,  but  the  appearances  of 
riches  were  most  deceptive.  The  money  for  Mrs. 
Hargrave's  weekly  bills  issued  in  weekly  struggles 
from  Mr.  Hargrave's  pocket  —  they  were  living  beyond 
their  income ;  but  out  of  three  daughters  and  four 
sons,  two  of  the  daughters  were  comfortably  married, 
and  all  the  sons  were  established  in  professions ;  so 
there  was  only  Rosalie  to  be  provided  for;  and  she 
was  betrothed,  and  would  probably  be  married  in 
about  three  or  four  months'  time ;  so  that  the  dashing 
town  establishment  need  only  be  kept  up  but  a  very 
6 


02  THE    CHATELAINE 

sliort  time  longer,  and  then  Mrs.  Hargrave  would 
remove  to  a  pretty  villa  in  the  suburbs,  where  she 
would  live  in  complete  retirement,  for  the  health  of 
self  and  pocket ;  and  Mr.  Hargrave  would  come  up 
and  down  by  the  omnibuses,  being  careful  not  to 
bring  in  a  friend  to  dinner  over  often.  With  this 
prospect  in  view,  Mrs.  Hargrave  struggled  on,  Avith 
what  misery,  and  with  what  hairbreadth  escapes,  only 
those  who  have  kept  up  an  expensive  establishment 
on  small  means  can  ever  tell.  In  the  mean  time,  she 
thought  it  was  no  use  telling  Rosalie  of  their  diffi- 
culties :  she  was  shortly  to  be  married  to  a  wealthy 
young  merchant ;  and  though  she  was  extravagant, 
what  did  that  matter  ?  she  would  have  plenty ;  and  it 
was  a  pity  to  check  the  generosity  of  her  nature ! 
Besides,  Mrs.  Hargrave  had  some  strange  feelings,  as 
though  it  would  lessen  her  daughter's  respect  for  her 
parents,  if  she  knew  of  their  money  troubles.  The 
little  daughter  was  only  eighteen,  and  understood 
nothing  at  all  about  money ;  and  she  was  so  gay  and 
thoughtless,  that  she  would  scarcely  have  believed 
Mrs.  Hargrave  if  she  had  told  her.  Indeed,  several 
times,  when  she  had  said,  "  Keally,  you  must  not 
be  so  extravagant,  Rosalie,  I  cannot  afford  it," 
Rosalie    had    laughed  :     "  Ah,    that's    the    old    story, 


THE    CHATELAINE.  63 

mother  dear.  Now  you  know  it's  all  nonsense, 
isn't  it?" 

So  Mrs.  Hargrave  determined  to  let  matters  e'en 
go  on  as  tlicy  had  done,  and  contented  herself  by 
making  sacrifices  of  various  little  things  which  she 
otherwise  woiild  have  had  for  herself,  to  make  amends 
for  her  daughter's  extravagance,  —  partly  from  affection 
for  her  child,  and  partly  from  that  miserable  feeling  of 
secrecy  in  money  matters  which  makes  so  much  misery, 
and  which  exists  too  often  between  mothers  and 
daughters,  fathers  and  sons,  husbands  and  wives. 
Had  Rosalie  known  from  the  first  that  her  father's 
apparent  wealth  was  really  all  appearance,  her  natu- 
rally good  heart  would  have  made  her  most  willing  to 
forego  all  extravagances,  and  she  would  have  learned 
the  wholesome  art  of  self-denial,  and  have  been  much 
more  fitted  for  her  future  career  in  life,  whatever  it 
might  be. 

That  evening  after  dinner  they  were  all  assembled 
comfortably  in  the  drawing-room ;  Mr.  Hargrave  in  a 
large  arm-chair,  with  a  handkerchief  over  his  face,  in 
a  quiet  dreamless  sleep.  Mrs.  Hargrave  was  sitting  at 
the  table,  with  a  green  shade  between  her  and  the 
lamp,  and  an  open  book  on  a  small  reading-desk 
before  her ;   but,  what  with  the  heat  of  the  fire  and 


^4  THE    CHATEXAINE. 

the  quiet  of  the  room,  she  was  gradually  nodding  off 
to  sleep  also.  Leopold  Malvern,  Rosalie's  betrothed, 
was  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  and  Rosalie 
at  his  feet  on  a  cushioned  footstool,  which  she  was 
very  fond  of.  They  were  quite  a  pretty  picture,  they 
looked  so  happy  and  comfortable ;  he  stooping  down  to 
whisper  something  in  her  ear,  and  she  leaning  her 
pretty  little  head  almost  against  his  knee,  like  any 
child.  Rosalie  was  always  treated  like  a  child  —  and 
she  liked  it ;  but  she  was  a  woman  too,  and  capable 
of  doing  more  than  any  one  suspected  for  those  she 
loved. 

The  formal  automaton  footman  opened  the  door : 
"  If  you  please,  mum,  here's  a  parcel  from  Newman 
and  Hardwick's." 

"  Mrs.  Hargrave  awoke.  "  It  must  be  some  mistake, 
James,"  said  she  ;   "  I  have  not  ordered  any  thing." 

"  It  is  directed  to  you,  mum,"  said  James,  as  he 
brought  the  packet  to  the  table. 

"  Oh,  I  ordered  it,  mamma,"  broke  in  Rosalie.  She 
had  been  so  )ccupied  with  what  Leo  had  been  saying, 
that  she  haan't  heard  what  had  passed  at  first. 

Mrs.  Hargrave  looked  round  in  utter  fright,  for 
visions  rose  up  before  her  of  the  sacrifices  of  neces- 
saries that  must  be  mtde  to  cover  this  extravagance. 


THE    CHATELAINE.  65 

But  nothing  could  be  done ;  so  she  told  the  man  to 
put  down  the  parcel,  for  that  it  was  all  right,  as  Miss 
Rosalie  had  ordered  it ;  and  the  man  left  the  room. 
Mrs.  Hargrave  endeavored  to  look  as  if  she  thoughi 
what  she  said,  totally  unconscious  that  the  obsequiout 
servant,  who  disappeared  at  her  bidding,  and  wlic 
seemed  neither  to  see  nor  hear  any  thing  that  passed 
before  him,  had  often  talked  over  her  difficulties  in  the 
kitchen,  and  lamented  what  a  thorn  in  her  side  she 
must  find  Miss  Rosalie's  extravagance. 

Poor  Mrs.  Hargrave  opened  the  jewelry,  and  Rosalie 
sprang  to  the  table  to  show  it  off;  she  put  the  bracelet 
on  her  own  round  white  arm,  and  held  her  fanciful 
little  basket  up  to  the  light.  "  Now,  my  dearest 
mother,  ain't  they  beautiful  ?  Leo,  just  look  at  this 
bracelet." 

"And  pray  how  much  did  they  cost,  Rosalie?" 
asked  her  mother. 

"  Six  pounds  ten  shillings  the  bracelet,  and  thirteen 
shillings  for  this  little  love,"  answered  Rosalie. 

"  That  is  too  much  —  I  really  cannot  afford  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Hargrave  rather  seriously.  "  They  must  be  sent 
back,"  continued  she,  after  a  short  pause. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  mamma,  pray  don't  send  them  back ; 
it  will  look  so  shabby  —  so  horrid  :  besides,  it  was  but 
6* 


66  THE    CHATELAINE. 

the  other  day  tnat  you  said  that  you  wanted  a  bracelet 
so  much ;  and  I  really  must  have  this  dear  little 
basket.     Now  do  —  there's  a  good  mother." 

"  My  dear  Rosalie,  I  have  told  you  that  I  do  not 
choose  to  have  the  bracelet ;  I  am  the  best  judge  of 
what  I  want,  I  should  think." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  just  take  the  money  out  of 
papa's  pocket ;  he  won't  be  angry  with  me,  I  know, 
for  he  hates  any  thing  to  look  stingy."  Rosalie  sprang 
forward  to  her  father. 

"  Rosalie,  Rosalie  —  don't  disturb  your  papa.  How 
very  troublesome  you  are  !  I  really  beg  you'll  never 
do  such  a  thing  again  without  asking  my  leave.  I  can 
buy  what  I  want,  without  your  doing  it  for  me." 

Rosalie  retired  to  her  seat.  Again  she  leaned  her 
head  towards  Leo's  knee,  almost  crying.  He  stroked 
her  hair  (as  though  she  were  a  child)  to  comfort  her. 

"  Leo,"  said  she,  looking  up,  "  when  I  belong  to 
you,  you  won't  scold  me  if  I  do  such  a  thing,  will 
you?" 

Leo  stooped  down,  and  kissed  her  forehead,  but  he 
said  nothing  ;  for  he  knew  he  should  not  have  the 
heart  to  scold  her,  and  yet  he  felt  that  hers  was  an 
awkward  propensity. 

The  three  months  passed  on  rapidly,  and,  at  last. 


THE    CHATELAINE.  67 

Leo   and  Rosalie   were   married.     It   was   a  Very  gay 

wedding ;    the   bride  was   lovely,   the   bridegroom  was 

handsome.     Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hargrave  were  in  the  most 

• 
excellent    spirits,    and    gave    a   magnificent   breakfast 

which  was   very   well    attended.     The    speeches    were 

much  less  stupid  than  usual  on  those  occasions ;  and 

nobody    cried.      Indeed,     the    people    were    all    very 

merry ;  for  every  body  said  what  a  good  match  it  was 

in   every  respect.     They '  went   their   bridal   tour,   and 

returned  home.     Leo  took   a   beautiful  house   for  his 

bride,    and    she    chose    beautiful    furniture.      Mr.   and 

Mrs.    Hargrave    retired    to    their    country    villa,    and 

things   went   on   as   comfortably   as   possible.     Rosalie 

had  no  mamma  to  ask  now ;   so  she  just  had  the  things 

the  liked  put  down  in  her  own  bills.     She  was  fond 

of  dress;  fond  of  jewelry;   fond  of  novelties;  but  Leo 

liked  to  sec  his  dear  little  wife  beautifully  attired  — 

and  wished  her  to  have  what  she  liked  —  besides,  he 

was  rich  and  could  afford  to  spend  a  little  more  than 

was,  perhaps,  absolutely  necessary  oa  his  young  bride  j 

and  as  they  had  a  large  acquaintance,  and  brides  are 

expected  to  go  out  a  great  deal  and  to  dress  well,  he 

was  not  surprised  that  his  expenses  were  considerablev 

but  he  hoped  they  would   soon   decrease,   and  so  for 

the  first  year  or  two  they  went  on  capitally. 


68  THE    CHATELAINE. 

After  that  there  came  a  change :  the  wheel  of 
fortune  turned.  Leo  lost  first  one  of  his  ships,  and 
then  another ;  his  speculations  failed  ;  and,  at  last, 
one  sad  gloomy  Christmas,  he  came  home  one  day- 
through  the  dark  fog  to  his  wife,  and  told  her  that 
he  feared  he  was  a  ruined  man.  Rosalie  was  aston- 
ished ;  she  had  thought  the  riches  of  her  husband 
inexhaustible,  and  she  had  acted  accordingly.  The 
dinner  was  passed  over  in  gloomy  silence ;  and,  after 
it,  the  husband  and  wife,  with  thoughtful  faces,  left 
the  dining-room,  and  with  the  doors  of  their  drawing- 
room  close  shut,  they  sat  down  to  talk  matters  over. 
Leo  sat  in  the  chair  by  the  fire,  and  Rosalie  where 
she  always  did,  at  his  feet ;  but  she  was  quite  a 
diSerent  Rosalie  now,  to  what  she  was  two  years 
before ;  there  was  no  thoughtlessness  in  her  face 
now  —  no,  nor  passionate  grief  even.  Leo  was  aston- 
ished ;  he  had  expected  quite  a  scene :  hysterics  and 
reproaches,  and  bewailings,  or,  at  any  rate,  tears ; 
but  Rosalie  was  calm  and  serious.  She  looked 
determined  to  meet  her  misfortune  courageously  ; 
and  Leo  felt  it  a  great  help  to  him,  as  it  gave 
him  courage :  and  he  loved  his  little  wife  still  more 
than  ever;  though  it  was  no  longer  as  a  mere 
child,    but   as    an    esteemed    friend,    with    whom    he 


THE    CHjCTEXMNE.  69 

could  reason  calmly  as  to  what  was  best  to  be 
done. 

"  Must  we  leave  our  house  ?  "  asked  Rosalie,  tim- 
idly ;  for  she  felt  that  would  be  indeed  a  trial. 

"  Not  if  I  can  manage  to  meet  my  expenses  this 
Christmas,"  replied  Leo ;  "  I  hope  and  trust  your 
bills  are  not  large." 

Rosalie  was  silent. 

"  Have  any  of  the  Christmas  bills  been  sent  in, 
Rosalie? " 

"  Yes,  some  of  them,  Leo." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  how  much  they  come  to, 
dear  ?  I  mean  not  the  house  bills,  but  your  bills, 
my  love." 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  am  afraid  it's  a  great  deal.  — 
Are  your  bills  heavy,  this  half-year,  Leo  ? " 

"  No,  —  r  knew  that  things  were  going  badly  with 
me,  though  I  had  no  idea  how  badly,  so  I  took  care 
to  keep  my  bills  under." 

"  Oh !  if  I  had  but  known  too,"  said  Rosalie, 
sorrowfully. 

"  I  wish  you  had ;  but  I  thought  it  woidd  only 
frighten  you,  perhaps  needlessly.  —  And  besides  Ldid 
not  know,  darling,  how  well  you  can  bear  things. 
Will   you  get  those    bills    you   have,"    continued   he. 


70  THE    CHATELAINE. 

after  a  short  pause,  "  that  we  may  look  them  over, 
and  see  if  it  will  be  possible  for  us  to  remain  in  our 
house  ?  " 

Rosalie  rose ;  she  opened  her  exquisite  little  desk, 
and  gloomily  took  out  three  or  four  long  bills ;  silently 
she  put  them  in  Leo's  hand,  and  sat  down  again.  He 
looked  them  over,  and  she  heard  him  sigh  heavily, 
but  he  said  nothing.  She  knew  they  were  enormous ; 
higher  this  year  than  they  had  been  before. 

"  Leo,  may  I  look  at  your  bills  ?  "  she  said,  meekly. 

He  gave  her  his  accounts,  and  she  looked  them  over. 
She  was  astonished  how  much  lower  they  were  than 
hers ;  astonished  to  find  how  many  things  he  had 
denied  himself.  —  Then,  for  the  first  time,  she  burst 
into  tears. 

"  Ah,  my  dearest  Leo,  how  many  things  you  have 
done  without !  How  many  things  you  have  denied 
yourself  that  you  really  must  have  wanted,  and  all  to 
spare  me !  Oh,  I  see  it  all ;  you  thought  that,  by 
being  so  economical  yourself,  we  might  get  over  this 
Christmas  very  well  in  spite  of  my  extravagance.  Oh, 
Leo !  Leo !  how  selfish  I  have  been ;  I  might  have 
known  that  you  did  not  leave  off  port  wine  and  cigars 
because  you  were  tired  of  them.  Oh,  will  you  forgive 
me,  Leo  ?  I  know  I  am  the  cause  of  all  our  difficulties. 


THE    CHATELAINE.  7l 

If  I  had  not  been  so  extravagant,  all  might  have  been 
well  —  but  even  now,  perhaps,  with  a  little  assistance 
from  papa  " 

"Your  father  cannot  assist  us,"  returned  Leo, 
gloomily;  "he  says  he  has  the  greatest  difficulty  to 
live  himself." 

"  Well,  well,"  cried  Rosalie,  "  then  we  must  sacrifice 
every  thing,  so  that  we  can  pay  but  what  we  owe ;  for 
it's  no  matter  being  poor,  so  that  one  is  not  in  debt. 
Oh,  how  selfish  I  have  been  !  But  Leo  !  dearest  Leo  ! 
will  you  promise  me  one  thing?  —  that  another  time 
you  will  tell  me  how  poor  we  are,  that  I  may  make 
sacrifices  too.  There  are  so  many  more  things  I  can 
do  without  than  you  can  (oh,  how  blind  I  was!)  — 
I'll  have  no  more  jewelry.  Ellen  shall  make  all  my 
things  at  home  (oh,  how  I  hate  the  sight  of  that 
wretched  name  Mademoiselle  Delphine  de  Paris!); 
and  ril  do  without  millions  of  things  that  are  of  no 
consequence  to  me :  I  will  have  no  more  bills ;  and 
I  shall  be  so  happy,  for  I  shall  feel  that  I  am  doing 
right." 

"My  darling  Rosalie,"  said  Leo,  as  he  kissed  her 
affectionately,  "how  foolish  I  was  not  to  have  told 
you  my  difficulties  from  the  first;  it  would  have  saved 
you  much  sorrow  and  privation  now.     We  must  let 


72  THE    CHATELAINE. 

this  house,  and  go  into  lodgings.  I  will  make  the 
greatest  exertions ;  we  will  sell  the  furniture  of  our 
house  to  pay  our  private  debts  ;  my  father  will  help 
me  with  my  business  ones  ;  and  in  another  year  T 
trust  we  shall  be  all  right  again;  and  I  will  confide 
all  my  joys  and  troubles,  my  wealth  and  poverty,  to 
you ;  and  you  shall  be  my  dear  darling  wife  and 
helpmate." 

How  worthless  and  paltry  her  trinkets  appeared 
now !  How  she  hated  ever  to  think  of  them,  and 
how  firmly  she  resolved,  if  she  should  once  be  free 
from  the  load  of  debt  that  weighed  so  heavily  upon 
her,  how  differently  she  would  act  for  the  future ! 
All  this  passed  through  Rosalie's  mind  with  the 
rapidity  of  lightning ;  and  when  Leo  ceased  speaking, 
she  felt  an  altered  being.  From  that  moment  might 
he  dated  the  commencement  of  a  new  era  in  her 
life. 

It  is  pleasant  to  add,  that  the  timely  aid  of  a 
friend  prevented  the  sacrifice  of  the  house  and  furni- 
ture ;  and  that  the  following  Christmas  found  Leo 
and  Rosalie  free  from  all  debts,  but  those  which 
they  could  easily  pay.  Rosalie,  however,  never 
forgot  the  lesson   she  had   received ;    and   during   the 


THE    CHATELAINE.  73 

whole   of  her   after  life,   if  she   took  a  fancy  to   any 
expensive    trinket,    she    always    paid    for    it    at    the 
time,  and  never,  on  any  account,  desired  the  jeweller 
to  put  it  down  in  the  bill. 
7 


CHIMES. 


BY  FLORENCE  WILSON. 


Those  joyous  bells  fall  heavy  on  my  ear, 
That  used  to  murmur  with  so  sweet  a  tone ; 

Nature,  in  unison,  looks  dark  and  drear, 

And  all  the  blandishments  of  life  seem  gone, 

Now  that  thou'rt  passed  unto  that  haven  blest. 

Where  world-worn  spirits  find  at  last  a  place  of  rest. 

Yet,  in  my  fancy,  I  behold  once  more 

Those  kindly  features  and  that  thoughtful  brow ; 

I  press  to  mine  those  loved  lips  o'er  and  o'er. 
And  rest  thee  on  my  bosom  even  now, 

As  I  have  rested  in  mine  infant  day. 

When  thy  caresses  charmed  each  childish  grief  away. 

Mother !  I  think  it  stiU  to  thee  is  given 
To  bless  me  with  thy  presence,  even  now, 


CHIMES  75 

The  ministering  angel  under  Heaven, 

Who  calms  my  mind  and  soothes  my  fevered  brow. 
Ah,  no !  upon  this  shadowy  vale  of  tears, 
We're  parted  now,  to  meet  in  brighter  spheres. 


DUTY: 


TALE. 


Stern  Lawgiver !  yet  dost  thou  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace ; 
Nor  knew  we  any  thing  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong, 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  thee, 
are  fresh  and  strong. 

Wordsworth. 

"Why  do  you  dwell  so  much,  dear  mamma,  upon 
the  necessity  of  acting  from  a  principle  of  duty?  It 
seems  so  cold  and  severe  a  word  !  and  it  is  so  much 
easier  and  happier  to  obey  you  and  papa  because  I 
love  you,  than  because  it  is  my  duty  to  do  so."  As 
Lucy  Edwardes  gave  utterance  to  these  words,  she 
fixed  her  eyes  with  so  fond  and  earnest  a  gaze  upon 


■nuTY.  77 

her  mother,  that  Mrs.  Edwardes  looked  sadly  on  her 
for  a  moment ;  but  her  pale  countenance  was  soon 
lighted  up  by  a  soft  tender  smile,  such  as  mothers 
only  can  bestow  upon  their  offspring,  and  she  replied, 
"  may  it  long  be  your  privilege,  my  child,  to  obey 
your  parents  joyously  and  freely  as  you  do  now,  but, 
perhaps,  in  after  life,  you  may  remember  your  mother's 
word,  that  affection  is  never  so  pure  or  steadfast  as 
when  it  is  guided  and  controlled  by  duty.  —  Duty, 
not  cold  and  stern,  as  .it  exists  in  your  imagination, 
but  tender  and  gentle  amid  its  high  and  firm  resolves. 
—  Duty,  such  as  I  trust  will  be  familiar  to  your  heart, 
when  the  earlier  and  more  ardent  impulses  of  affection 
may  have  passed  away.  .  .  .  But  I  will  not  enlarge  on 
this  subject  now,  as  it  seems  distasteful  to  you,  my 
love ; "  added  Mrs.  Edwardes,  while  her  head  sank 
back  upon  her  couch,  as  if  she  were  wearied  by  the 
effort  of  speaking.  Lucy  pressed  to  her  lips  her 
mother's  hand,  which  she  had  held  within  her  own 
during  the  brief  moments  of  their  conversation ;  and 
rising  from  the  footstool  whereon  she  had  been  seated, 
entered  the  conservatory,  near  whose  open  door,  the 
invalid's  sofa  was  placed,  and  plucking  a  sprig  of 
heliotrope,  which  she  knew  to  be  her  mother's  favorite 
flower,  laid  it  on  the  work-table  at  her  side.  Mrs. 
7* 


78.  DUTY. 

Edwardes  smiled  gratefully  upon  her  daughter ;  and 
Lucy  inquired  whether  she  would  like  some  music.  — 
"  Yes,  let  me  have  one  of  your  beautiful  Scotch  airs." 
— "  Or  my  last  new  Italian  song,  mamma  ? "  — 
"  Whichever  suits  your  ov/n  taste  best,  my  love."  — 
Lucy  seated  herself  at  the  piano,  and  poured  forth  a 
full  tide  of  song,  which  at  other  times  would  have 
gratified  her  mother's  ear ;  but  the  closed  eye  and 
hectic  flush  bespoke  suffering  too  acute  to  be  soothed 
by  mortal  melody. 

All  this  while,  Mrs.  Edwardes  had  been  watched  by 
another  anxious  eye ;  for  Lucy  had  a  sister,  about  a 
year  older  than  herself ;  and  just  then,  Marion 
Edwardes  was  seated  at  the  other  end^f  the  drawing- 
room,  seemingly  engaged  in  sketching,  but  her  pencil 
was  held  in  silent  thoughtfulness,  while  she  looked 
earnestly  towards  her  mother.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation,  she  arose  and  going  into  the  next  room, 
brought  back  a  restorative  which  she  ofi'ered  to  the 
invalid ;  a  look  of  grateful  love  rewarded  her  consid- 
eration, and  she  inquired  in  a  low  voice :  "  Is  the 
music  too  much  for  you,  mamma  ?  "  —  "  Oh,  no  ," 
don't  mar  Lucy's  pleasure :  I  am  stronger  again."  — 
But  Marion  turned  round  and  whispered  to  her  sister, 
"  I  think,   Lucy,   some    simpler  melody  would  please 


DUTY.  79 

mamma  better,  for  she  does  not  seem  well  enough 
to-day  to  enjoy  such  brilliant  music."  — "  That  is 
just  one  of  your  old-fashioned  notions,  Marion ;  as  if 
an  air  of  Bellini's  could  be  more  hurtful  than  some 
ditty  which  has  been  sung  for  ages  by  shepherds  and 
ploughboys  !  .  .  .  but  if  mamma  is  suffering,  I  had 
better  not  play  at  all,"  she  continued ;  and  closing 
the  instrument,  rose  up  from  her  seat.  Observing 
that  Marion  looked  grieved,  she  added  in  a  contrite 
tone  :  "  I  hope,  dearest  Marion,  you  are  not  displeased 
with  me ;  I  would  not  vex  you  for  worlds."  —  So 
saying  she  kissed  her  cheek,  and  resuming  her  em- 
broidery, seated  herself  once  more  at  her  mother's 
side. 

This  little  scene  had  passed  behind  Mrs.  EdAvardes' 
couch,  but  she  had  overheard  some  of  her  children's 
words,  and  her  eye  rested  anxiously  on  them  both. 
The  entrance  of  her  husband  introduced  new  topics 
of  conversation,  and  as  she  exerted  herself  to  enliven 
the  leisure  hour  which  was  always  devoted  to  her, 
he  could  not  realize  to  htmself  that  the  being,  whose 
soft  cheerfulness  and  harmless  wit  formed  the  delight 
of  his  home,  was  abovit  to  pass  away  like  a  shadow 
from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

A  year  had  elapsed  since  the  day  just  alluded  to. 


80  DUTY. 

The  sun  shone  as  brightly  as  ever  upon  the  gay  con- 
servatory, whose  fragrance  had  often  been  so  grateful 
to  the  drooping  invalid.  The  sound  of  music  was 
still  heard  within  that  pleasant  drawing-room.  Books 
and  work  were,  as  heretofore,  scattered  throughout  the 
apartment.  But  she,  whose  presence  had  once  shed  a 
calm  joy  around  these  household  comforts,  was  gone : 
and  her  young  daughters  looked  sad  and  desolate  in 
their  sable  garments.  Yet  theirs  was  the  sadness  of 
a  spring  morning,  whose  clouds  and  sunshine  are  so 
happily  blended  together,  that  one  would  not  give  up 
the  tempered  brightness  of  that  changeful  sky  for  the 
brilliancy  of  the  noontide  hour.  She  who  was  gone 
hence,  had  spoken  words  of  peace  and  hope  which 
dwelt  within  their  hearts,  as  pledges  of  their  mother's 
bliss;  and  her  spirit  seemed  to  hover  around  their 
domestic  hearth,  binding  together  more  closely  than 
ever  those  who  were  dearest  to  her  on  earth.  Her 
widowed  husband  seemed  to  centre  all  his  love  and 
all  his  hopes  in  his  two  daughters,  who  now  formed 
his  only  household  treasures. 

Marion  and  Lucy  were  at  an  age  which  peculiarly 
needed  a  mother's  care,  for  they  were  just  springing 
into  womanhood;  but  all  that  a  father's  tenderness 
could  supply  was  bestowed  by  Mr.  Edwardes,  who,  in 


DtTTT.  81 

each  leisure  hour,  directed  their  studies,  shared  in 
their  pursuits,  and  gave  them  every  healthful  recreation 
they  could  desire.  He  seemed  to  live  for  his  children, 
and  they  loved  him  with  that  devoted  affection  which 
is  the  happiest  bond  between  a  father  and  his  daugh- 
ters. Marion  was  his  daily  counsellor  and  stay,  for 
she  united  to  all  the  freshness  of  seventeen,  the 
ripened  judgment  of  a  more  advanced  age ;  but  Lucy 
Avas  his  pride  and  his  darling.  Her  dark  eyes  rested 
on  him  with  such  fond  affection  —  her  childlike  play- 
fulness was  so  bewitching  —  her  voice  so  full  of  sweet 
modulation !  Yes,  Lucy  was  her  father's  favorite,  and 
she  knew  it. 

In  the  earlier  days  of  his  widowhood,  Mr.  Edwardes 
had  turned  chiefly  to  Marion  for  comfort,  and  her  silent 
tears  were  his  best  earthly  solace ;  but  as .  his  grief 
became  less  poignant,  he  found  relief  in  the  society 
of  his  younger  daughter,  whose  occasional  bursts  of 
sorrow  were  less  oppressive  to  his  spirits  than  the 
quiet  sadness  of  her  sister. 

As  time  wore  on,  Marion  spoke  more  rarely  than 
heretofore  of  her  beloved  mother,  whose  image,  how- 
ever, dwelt  within  her  heart,  and  whose  words  she 
ireasured  up  as  a  storehouse  of  wisdom  and  conso- 
lation.    Lucy,  on  the  other  hand,  loved  to  talk  with 


S2  DUTY. 

her  father  of  the  "being  so  dear  to  them  both;  and 
these  conversations  tended  to  lighten  the  burden  of 
their  sorrow,  and  to  prepare  them  for  a  participation 
in  other  thoughts  and  joys,  connected  with  the  present 
rather  than  with  the  past. 

It  was  a  calm  autumn  evening.  The  sisters  were 
standing  together  in  a  bay  window,  from  whence  they 
watched  the  setting  sun  as  it  sank  behind  the  distant 
hills  which  bounded  their  horizon.  Marion's  hand 
rested  on  her  sister's  shoulder,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  some  painful  recollection  had  been  awakened 
by  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  for  a  tear  stole  down  her 
cheek,  which,  being  observed  by  Lucy,  she  gently 
kissed  away.  At  this  moment  their  father  entered 
with  an  open  note  in  his  hand. 

"  Here  is  an  invitation  for  you,  my  children,  to 
Florence-court." 

"Are  we  to  go  ?  " 

"  May  we  go  ? "  escaped  at  the  same  moment,  from 
Marion  and  Lucy's  lips. 

"  Just  as  you  please ;  for  I  have  no  wish  to  deprive 
you  of  any  innocent  enjoyment.  What  say  you,  my 
grave  and  gentle  Marion?"  inquired  Mr.  Edwardes, 
addressing  his  eldest  daughter. 

"  Oh,  papa,  as  far  as  my  choice  is  concerned,"  began 


DUTY.  83 

Marion,  but  perceiving  a  shade  of  disappointment  on 
Lucy's  countenance,  she  added,  "let  dear  Lucy  decide; 
I  will  do  whatever  she  likes  best." 

Lucy's  features  lighted  up  as  she  expressed  the 
delight  it  would  give  her  to  accept  Lady  Leslie's 
invitation,  saying  that  Isabel  Leslie  was  such  a 
charming  person  that  she  longed  to  see  her  again. 

"  Well,  my  little  enthusiast,  you  shall  go  there ;  but 
this  is  rather  an  impromptu  friendship  you  have  formed 
for  Miss  Leslie  ;  you  have  met  but  once  —  besides,  she 
is  several  years  older  than  you  are." 

"  Yes,  yes,  papa ;  but  she  is  so  beautiful  and  so 
kind,  and  sings  so  divinely !  I  cannot  help  loving 
her." 

Mr.  Edwardes  rallied  her  for  a  few  moments  longer, 
and  then  returned  to  his  study.  Marion  looked  rather 
graver  than  usual ;  but  Lucy  was  too  happy  in  antici- 
pation of  the  morrow,  to  observe  her  sister's  saddened 
aspect. 

The  second  year  of  Mr.  Edwardes'  widowhood  had 
passed  away,  and  the  beloved  mother  of  his  children 
was  about  to  be  replaced  by  a  younger  and  more 
beautiful  companion.  Isabella  Leslie  was  on  the  eve 
of  becoming  the  mistress  of  Hazlewood.  Lucy's  heart 
leaped  with  joy  at  the  prospect  of  having  her  friend 


84  DUTY. 

the  inmate  of  her  home,  so  that  she  could  enjoy  her 
society  without  the  many  interruptions  which  had 
of  late  somewhat  excited  her  impatient  disposition. 
There  was  but  one  drawback  to  her  happiness.  She 
could  not  conceal  from  herself  that  the  union  in  which 
she  so  fondly  rejoiced,  was  painfully  unwelcome  to  her 
sister.  Marion's  calm  smile  and  quiet  demeanor  might 
have  deceived  an  ordinary  observer;  but  the  eye  of 
affection  could  detect  a  struggling  heart  beneath  this 
peaceful  exterior.  This  discovery  would  have  affected 
Lucy  still  more  deeply,  had  she  not  thought  it 
strangely  unreasonable  of  Marion  not  to  share  in  the 
ardent  attachment  she  felt  for  her  friend.  At  times, 
the  remembrance  that  her  mother  had  not  desired  the 
acquaintance  of  the  Leslie's  family  for  her  children, 
would  give  her  a  momentary  pang ;  but  this  unwel- 
come thought  was  quickly  expelled  by  her  determi- 
nation to  believe,  that  had  Isabella's  excellences  been 
known  to  her  mother,  she  would  gladly  have  chosen 
her  as  the  companion  of  her  daughters. 

The  bridal  pair  had  returned  from  their  wedding 
tour,  and  on  their  arrival  at  home,  Isabella  was  greeted 
by  Lucy  with  the  same  ardent  enthusiasm  which  had 
marked  her  attachment  since  the  first  day  of  their 
meeting;    Marion  was  there  too,  and  in  the   cordial 


DUTY.  85 

welcome  she  gave  her  father's  wife,  no  shade  of 
gloom  was  suffered  to  overcloud  this  their  first  family- 
meeting.  Mr.  Edwardes  was  too  much  engrossed  with 
his  own  happiness  to  observe  the  changing  color  of  his 
eldest  daughter  at  this  trying  moment ;  but  the 
haughty  expression  of  Isabella's  eye,  as  her  glance 
rested  on  Marion,  showed  that  there  was  one  at  least 
who  had  detected  the  hidden  feelings  of  her  heart. 
Isabella  was  not  destitute  of  many  good  qualities,  but 
her  natural  vanity  had  been  fostered  by  an  injudicious 
mother  into  arrogance  and  self-conceit.  Alas !  how 
often  does  mistaken  affection  check  the  unfolding  of 
kindly  virtues  within  the  bosom  of  its  idol !  even 
like  some  parasitic  creepers  which  stifle  the  blossoms 
of  those  fragrant  shrubs  around  which  they  have 
entwined  themselves  with  an  aspect  of  clinging 
tenderness. 

The  sisters  were  now  emancipated  from  the  restraints 
of  the  schoolroom,  but  their  old  place  of  study  was 
still  appropriated  to  their  exclusive  use ;  and  there,  a 
few  hours  were  daily  spent  by  Marion  in  reading  or 
in  other  favorite  pursuits.  There  too,  she  often  sought 
refuge  from  petty  mortifications  which  awaited  her  in 
the  drawing-room;   nor  did  she  ever  trust  herself  to 

rejoin   the   domestic   circle,    until    she    had    obtained 
8 


86  DUTY. 

Strength  to  fulfil  cheerfully  the  new  duties  which  were 
now  allotted  to  her. 

In  this  quiet  apartment  she  was  seated  one  after- 
noon, when  Lucy  rushed  into  the  room,  and  throwing 
her  arms  round  her  sister's  neck,  exclaimed  passion- 
ately, "  You  are  the  only  one  now  left  to  love  or  care 
for  me,  dearest  Marion!  Oh  how  bitter  it  is  to 
be  deceived  where  one  has  trusted  so  fondly  —  so 
entirely ! " 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  love  ?  "  inquired  Marion, 
with  an  anxious  look. 

"  You  know,  Marion,  how  I  have  devoted  every 
thought  to  my  father  and  Isabella,  —  how  I  longed 
for  their  union,  —  how  I  rejoiced  at  its  accomplishment. 
"Well,  they  no  longer  care  for  me.  I  am  not  necessary 
to  their  happiness ;  nay,  my  presence  seems  unwelcome 
to  them;  but,"  added  she,  rising  up  with  an  air  of 
offended  dignity,  —  "I  will  not  tamely  submit  to  such 
insulting  treatment.  They  shall  learn  that  I  can  exist 
without  them.  The  world  is  wide  enough  for  them 
and  me." 

Marion,  though  used  to  occasional  outbursts  of  her 
sister's  ardent  temper,  looked  perplexed  and  grieved. 
After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  said :  "  Surely,  you 
are  mistaken,  Lucy ;  although  papa  has,  of  course,  less 


DUTY.  87 

leisure  to  bestow  on  us  now  than  in  former  days,  yet 
he  is  very  kind ;  and  as  for  Isabella,  it  is  impossible 
but  that  she  should  love  you." 

"  Yes,  with  such  love  as  a  stepmother  may  bestow, 
but  not  such  as  I  have  a  right  to  expect  from  my 
chosen  friend.  And,  as  for  papa,  he  is  so  engrossed 
with  his  young  wife,  that  I  believe,  at  heart,  he  cares 
very  little  for  you  or  me,  although  you  may  choose 
to  believe  the  contrary ;  for  my  part,  I  will  not  be 
deceived  by  him  or  by  Isabella  either." 

"  Dear,  dear  Lucy,"  said  Marion  gravely,  "  do  you 
remember  that  he  is  our  father,  and  that  it  is  our  duty 
to  love  him,  and  to  love  her  for  his  sake  ?  " 

"  Duty !  that  is  so  like  yoi;,  Marion.  You  are  a 
very  wise  teacher  truly,  but  you  cannot  make  me 
love  by  rule,"  said  Lucy  scornfully. 

"  Indeed,  I  did  not  mean  to  teach  you,  dear  Lucy ; 
but  you  cannot  forget  who  it  was,"  she  added  with  a 
trembling  lip,  "  who  it  was  that  taught  us  that  Duty 
Avas  the  highest  and  holiest  principle  of  life.  You 
cannot  foi'get  who  it  was  that  warned  us  how  the 
strongest  affection  might  sometimes  waver,  if  not 
controlled  and  guided  by  a  sense  of  duty." 

Lucy  burst  into  tears,  and  throwing  herself  anew 
into  her  sister's  arms,  cried   out,   "  Ah !   my  be^^ved 


88  DUTY. 

mother,  would  that  she  were  here  again,  to  pity  and 
direct  us," 

"We  cannot  recall  her,  dearest  Lucy,  nor,  perhaps, 
ought  we  to  wish  to  do  so ;  but  may  we  not  best 
cherish  her  memory  by  endeavoring  to  obey  all  her 
wishes  concerning  us  ?  " 

"  It  is  so  hard !  so  very  hard ! "  observed  Lucy. 
"  You  cannot  know,  Marion,  how  difficult  it  is  to  be 
gentle  and  loving  to  those  who  are  wounding  and 
annoying  you ;  for  you  are  naturally  so  kind  and  good 
that  you  have  no  struggle  in  doing  what  is  right." 

"  No  struggle  !  "  replied  Marion,  mournfully.  "  Oh, 
Lucy !  how  little  do  you  know  of  the  long,  bitter 
struggles  I  have  had  before  it  was  possible  for  me 
to  overcome  painful  and  rebellious  feelings,  so  as  to 
be  able  cheerfully  to  fulfil  the  duties  of  my  present 
position." 

"  Is  it  possible,  dearest  Marion  ?  and  I  knew 
nothing  about  it.  How  cold,  how  hateful,  you  must 
have  thought  me  !  " 

"  No,  no.  I  always  felt  sure  that  you  loved  me, 
although  we  seemed  unhappily  to  be  estranged  for  a, 
while." 

"  Oh !  I  shall  never  —  never  be  like  you,  my  dear, 
good  Marion,"  said  Ijucy,  in  a  renewed  agony  of  grief. 


DtTTT.  89 

"  Say  not  so,  dearest  Lucy ;  for  are  we  not  both 
equally  weak  and  frail  in  our  best  resolutions  ?  and 
have  we  not  the  same  unfailing  promise  of  strength  to 
cheer  and  support  us  in  every  time  of  trial  ?  Only  let 
us  ask  earnestly  for  it,  and  act  honestly  up  to  our 
convictions  of  what  is  right,  then  all  will  be  well,  and 
happy  too." 

"  Happy !  "  reechoed  Lucy,  with  an  incredulous 
smile. 

"  Yes,  happy,  my  dearest  sister ;  for  we  cannot  but 
remember  how  often  our  beloved  mother  told  us,  that 
the  path  of  duty  is  the  way  to  happiness,  even  in  this 
present  life." 

We  will  now  pass  over  two  years  of  the  domestic 
life  at  Hazlewood ;  and,  at  the  end  of  this  period,  we 
find  Isabella  the  mother  of  a  lovely  boy,  whose  birth 
had  made  her  dearer  than  ever  to  Mr.  Edwardes ; 
indeed,  the  little  stranger  seemed  to  be  a  sweet  bond 
of  love,  drawing  the  whole  household  nearer  to  one 
another. 

Hour  after  hour  Marion  would  steal  into  the  nursery 
to  gaze  upon  her  new-born  brother,  and  her  gentle 
caresses  soon  made  her  welcome  to  the  infant.  As 
for  Lucy,  her  admiration  of  him  was  unbounded ; 
and  Isabella,  whose  whole  being  seemed  soften<^d 
8* 


90  DUTY. 

and  elevated  by  the  new  sensation  of  maternal  love, 
could  not  but  look  kindly  upon  those  by  whom  her 
little  one  was  so  tenderly  cherished. 

Alas  !  a  worm  was  within  this  early  bud  of  domestic 
joy.  Isabella  saw  her  babe  droop  and  wither  at  a 
time  when  her  own  failing  health  rendered  her  unable 
to  yield  all  those  fond  offices  of  love  which  a  mother 
best  can  bestow.  Marion  supplied  her  place  with 
untiring  devotion ;  nor  was  Lucy  less  anxious  to 
watch  over  her  dying  brother ;  but  the  ardor  of  her 
spirit  somewhat  disqualified  her  for  the  patient  stillness 
which  a  sick  room  requires.  Marion  directed  her  zeal 
into  the  more  active  channel  of  attendance  on  Isabella, 
whose  indisposition,  combined  with  anxiety,  often 
made  her  sensitive  and  irritable.  This  was  a  time 
of  trial  to  tlie  new-formed  principles  of  Lucy ;  but, 
amid  some  failures  and  discouragements,  she  gradually 
learned  the  blessedness  of  forbearing,  as  well  as  of 
acting  from  a  sense  of  duty.  Keeping  this  high  aim 
steadily  in  view,  she  found,  moreover,  that  insensibly 
her  affection  for  Isabella  was  reviving,  and  that  it  was 
no  longer  a  passionate  emotion,  but  a  kindly,  unselfish 
love. 

When  Isabella  came  to  suffer  that  bitter  anguish 
which  a  bereaved  mother  alone  can  know,  Lucy  saw 


DUTY.  91 

without  jealousy  that  she  turned  intuitively  to  M  irion 
for  comfort ;  —  to  Marion,  who  had  borne  with  Christ- 
ian meekness  her  neglect  and  scorn  ;  —  to  Marion,  who 
had  fostered  her  little  one  with  unwearied  tenderness. 
To  her  she  now  sought  for  sympathy ;  and  it  was 
yielded  to  her  in  all  its  gentle  and  unalloyed  purity, 
fresh  from  the  fountain-head  of  mercy  and  of  love. 

The  first  agony  of  maternal  grief  was  past,  and 
Isabella,  unwilling  to  make  othei's  more  miserable  by 
indulging  in  the  luxury  of  solitary  woe,  had  rejoined 
the  domestic  circle.  It  was  a  cold  autumn  evening, 
and  the  family  party  were  collected  around  their 
nreside,  at  that  twilight  hour  when  English  reserve 
is  wont  to  be  unlocked,  and  the  thoughts  of  English 
hearts  to  be  more  freely  spoken.  Isabella  had  just 
placed  on  Marion's  finger  a  mourning  ring,  in 
remembrance  of  the  babe  who  was  so  dear  to  theni 
both,  and  almost  involuntarily  she  pressed  the  finger, 
with  its  precious  burthen,  to  her  lips. 

"  Oh,  Marion."  she  exclaimed,  "  how  could  I  have 
been  so  cruel  to  you ;  and  how  were  you  able  to  bear 
so  gently  with  my  unkindness  ?  " 

"  Surely,  it  was  my  duty  to  do  so ;  besides,  you 
never  meant  to  be  cruel  or  unkind,  dear  Isabella." 

"  Not  deliberately,  perhaps,  but  that  is   no  excuse 


92  DXJTT. 

for  my  conduct,  neither  can  I  be  so  ungenerous  as  to 
accept  it  as  such." 

"  That  confession  is  worthy  of  you,  my  noble-minded 
Isabella,"  said  Mr.  Edwardes  to  his  wife ;  "  nor  can  / 
feel  myself  guiltless  of  having  somewhat  neglected 
those  who  are  very  dear  to  me ;  but  how  can  we 
atone  better  for  past  errors,  than  by  acting  for  the 
future  on  "Marion's  principle  ?  " 

"  Not  mine,  dear  papa,  do  not  call  it  mine ;  it  was 
taught  us  by  our  beloved  mother,  and  you  know  from 
what  high  and  holy  source  she  drew  it." 

Isabella  drew  a  deep  sigh.  "  Ah !  Marion,  what  a 
treasure  your  mother  must  have  been;  would  that  I 
were  like  her." 

"  That  is  a  wish,  which  every  heart  here  might  well 
reecho  for  itself,"  rejoined  her  husband;  "but  why, 
dearest,  should  we  not  adopt  the  same  principles  which 
were  her  guide,  and  seek  for  the  same  strength  which 
was  her  stay  ?  then  we,  too,  shall  know  the  happiness 
arising  from  a  steady  adherence  to  duty,  and  which, 
my  children,"  he  added,  with  a  look  of  aifection  upon 
his  daughters,  "  which  my  children,  I  rejoice  to  think, 
have  already  found." 

Isabella's  glance  bespoke  a  deep  though  silent 
acquiescence.      Lucy   almost   sobbed   for  joy,    as   she 


DUTY.  .  93 

threw  herself  into  Isabella's  arms,  exclaiming,  "  Ah ! 
we  shall  all  be  happy  again,  shall  we  not  ?  dear 
Isabella." 

The  mother's  heart  had  been  too  recently  wrung 
with  misery  to  respond  cheerfully  to  Lucy's  expectation 
of  happiness ;  but,  while  returning  her  affectionate 
embrace,  she  whispered,  "  We  shall,  at  least,  have  a 
home  of  peace  and  love." 

"  And  shall  we  not  indulge  in  bright  hope  too  ? " 
inquired  Marion,  softly.  A  gentle  pressure  of  her 
hand  was  the  only  answer  given. 

Mr.  Edwardes  sat  silently  by,  gazing  upon  his  wife 
and  daughters ;  his  look  was  one  of  tenderness  and 
admiration. 

That  twilight  conversation  was  prolonged  until  the 
shades  of  night  fell  thickly  around  the  inmates  of 
Hazlewood ;  and  that  dull  autumn  evening,  which 
began  with  such  sorrowful  reminiscences,  was  followed 
by  a  long  course  of  tranquil  happiness,  such  as  can 
only  be  experienced  by  those  whose  love  has  been 
strengthened  by  trial,  and  whose  most  ardent  affections 
are  swayed  by  the  firm  yet  gentle  hand  of  Duty. 


THE    CARRIER-PIGEON. 

Speed,  speed  upon  thy  way ! 
I  send  thee  on  a  gentle  errand,  —  fly, 
And  work  my  bidding  ere  tlie  parting  ray 

Fades  from  the  western  sky. 

The  summer  woods  are  dark. 
And  murmur  lovingly,  yet  pause  not  thou 
That  bearest  tokens  onward  to  thine  ark, 

More  sure  than  leo.f  or  bough ! 

In  sunshine  bathe  thy  breast, 
Stay  not  within  the  swift  and  glancing  rill 
To  dip  thy  wing ;  for  thee  a  sweeter  rest 

Is  waiting,  —  onward  still ! 

Forth  from  the  casement  —  there 

She  leans  to  gaze  upon  the  sky ;  and  now 

* 

The  evening  light  lies  golden  on  her  hair. 
Lies  warm  on  cheek  and  brow. 


THE    CAERIEK-PIGEON.  95 

She  looks  unto  the  west,  — 
It  is  for  thee  she  watches :  thou  wilt  be 
Soon  by  her  hand,  her  gentle  hand,  carest, — 

How  softly,  tenderly! 

But  first  beneath  thy  wing 
It  trembles,  while  she  seeks  my  letter;  well 
She  knows,  ere  yet  she  frees  the  silken  string. 

All  that  it  hath  to  tell ! 

And  yet  the  heart  would  fain 
Hear  what  it  best  hath  loved  repeated  oft; 
It  falls  and  rises,  beating  with  the  strain, 

In  measured  cadence  soft. 

Like  childhood's  ear  that  drinks 
Some  oft-told  story,  some  remembered  rhyme, 
It  knows  and  greets  each  coming  word,  yet  thinks 

Them  sweeter  every  time. 

Ah !  would  that  to  her  heart 
She  chanced  but  once  to  press  the  folded  line, 
Then  all  the  warmth  to  sudden  life  would  start 

I  breathed  on  it  from  mine ! 


96  THE    CAKKIEK-PIGEOK. 

The  love,  the  tenderness, 
That  found  in  words  no  kindred  language,  tliere 
Would  seek  a  fond  interpreter  to  guess 

All  they  may  ne'er  declare. 

I  do  but  stay  thy  flight,  — 
Speed  on  thy  way !     The  summer  Heavens  are  wide. 
Yet  through  their  broad  and  untracked  fields  of  light 

Thou  wilt  not  need  a  guide. 

My  thoughts  before  thee  fly,  — 

Thou  needest  but  to  follow  where  they  lead ; 
They  have  one  way  —  ah,  would  that  with  thee,  I 
Might  also  follow  !  —  Speed ! 


I:    C^riicn^Zd.J 


UinJlL    WU, 


THE    MAID    OF    THE    MILL. 

BY   H.   A. 

"  The  Maid  of  the  Mill !  "  exclaimed  Janet  Foster, 
as  she  glanced  at  a  pretty  engraving  she  held  in  her 
hand.  "  What  a  picturesque  costume !  How  much 
more  becoming  than  these  uniform  dresses  we  are  all 
wearing  now-a-days !  And  such  a  uniform  life  as  one 
must  lead,  too !  Every  body  talks  on  the  same 
subjects  —  lives  through  their  days  in  the  same  way. 
Dear  me  !  why  was  not  I  born  a  Maid  of  the  Mill, 
that  1  might  live  a  freer  life,  where  I  should  not  have 
to  discuss  the  opera  and  the  latest  polka !  Such 
tedious  men  as  there  are  about !  And  I  have  the 
consciousness,  all  the  time,  that  none  of  them  care  a 
penny  for  me.  I  am  Miss  Foster,  the  orphan  heiress, 
and  so  Harry  Stanton  laughs  at  my  jokes,  and  Mr. 
Gray  sends  me  flowers.  Old  Mr.  Beauseant  makes 
his  weekly  visits,  and  all  the  girls  look  at  me  with 
envy.  But,  really,  with  this  pretty  costume  on,  —  this 
9 


98  THE    MAID    OF    THE    MILL. 

short  dress,  so  much  freer  than  our  sweeping  robes,  — 
this  becoming  little  hat,  to  say  nothing  of  the  little 
white  feet,  —  if  I  had  only  been  born  to  these,  I  think 
I  might  have  made  a  picture,  too !  " 

So  soliliquized  pretty  Janet  Foster,  who  had  been 
all  her  life  petted  and  spoiled,  and  had  never  once 
expressed  a  wish  but  it  was  gratified  as  soon  as  it 
was  uttered.  And  in  this  instance,  her  usual  fortune 
did  not  fail  her. 

A  letter  was  brought  in  to  her :  — "  From  Sandis- 
knowe !  What  out-of-the-way  place  is  that  ?  Ah, 
from  dear  Miss  Miiicent :  now  for  a  long  letter  upon 
rural  felicity ! " 

Dear  Miss  Miiicent  was  no  longer  Miss  Miiicent ; 
but  she  had  so  long  borne  that  name,  that  it  was 
difficult  to  bestow  upon  her  her  new  appellation  of 
Mrs.  Stubbs. 

Miss  Miiicent  had  held  the  office  of  governess  to 
Janet  Foster.  This  had  not  been  a  trying  duty ;  for 
her  pupil  had  possessed  such  a  boundless  good  humor, 
and  such  veneration  for  Miss  Miiicent,  th^t  the  task 
of  educating  her  had  proved  an  easy  one. 

Nevertheless,  Miss  Miiicent  did  not  so  much  enjoy 
eating  "  the  bread  of  dependence,"  but  that  she  could 
prefer  to  accept  Mr.  Stubbs's  offer,  and  live  on  flour 


THE    MAID    OF    THE    MILL.  99 

of  liis  own  making.  When,  upon  the  death  of  hih 
first  wife,  and  tlie,  marriage  of  his  only  daughter,  Mr. 
Stubbs  had  looked  round  for  some  worthy  person  to 
take  charge  of  his  mejiage,  his  thoughts  turned  towards 
the  rosy-cheeked  maiden  who  had  left  Sandisknowe 
in  her  youth,  to  seek  her  fortune  in  the  world.  Since 
then  his  own  fortunes  had  risen ;  he  owned  himself 
the  little  mill  that  decorated  the  valley  of  Sandisknowe, 
and  found  now  that  Miss  Milicent  was  not  sorry  to 
retire  there  again,  and  leave  behind  her  a  world  that 
had  never  treated  her  flatteringly. 

And  now  her  letter  enlarged  upon  her  new-found 
domestic  happiness.  She  described  the  care  with 
which  Mr.  Stubbs  had  arranged  the  pretty  cottage 
that  formed  her  home,  the  neat  vegetable  garden,  but, 
most  of  all,  the  picturesque  beauty  of  the  country 
round  about,  that  truly  equalled  all  those  pictures 
that  the  memory  of  her  childhood  had  painted  for 
her,  and  which  she  had  often  retraced  to  Janet.  She 
concluded  by  hoping  that  when  Miss  Janet  should 
be  longing  for  a  retreat  from  the  gayeties  about  her, 
she  would  come  to  Sandisknowe,  and  take  possession 
of  the  cottage  chamber,  that  was  already  adorned 
with  reference  to  her  taste. 

With    Janet,     action     followed     upon    thought,     as 


100  IHE    MAID    or    THE    MILL. 

quickly  as  her  words  were  wont  to  flow;  and  it  was 
not  many  days  before  she  found  herself  on  her  way 
to  the  happy  valley.  She  had  found  no  difficulty  in 
obtaining  the  consent  of  her  Uncle  and  Aunt  Standfast 
(with  whom  she  had  lived  from  her  infancy),  to  this 
step.  Mrs.  Standfast,  too,  promised  secrecy  upon  the 
subject.  She  agreed  not  to  let  Harry  Stanton,  or 
the  Grays,  or  any  of  Janet's  friends,  know  of  the 
place  of  her  retreat.  She  was  the  more  willing  and 
able  to  promise  this,  for  she  was  not  a  woman  of 
many  words.  Whether  from  the  depths  of  her 
philosophy  and  experience,  she  had  learned  that 
silence  is  golden,  or  whether  she  had  educated  herself 
to  the  habit  of  never  speaking  until  she  had  something 
to  say,  —  and  her  placid  mind  was  seldom  awakened 
by  the  dawning  of  an  idea,  —  it  would  be  useless  to 
strive  to  discover.  Mr.  Standfast  v/as  so  enveloped 
in  politics,  that  after  Janet  had  mentioned  tho  spot  to 
which  she  was  going,  and  he  had  recalled  that  the 
village  had  never  a  vote  to  throw,  he  dismissed  the 
whole  subject  from  his  mind. 

Thus  it  was  without  any  obstacles,  Janet  found 
herself  ensconced  in  her  governess's  new  home*  Nay, 
more  had  her  fond  hopes  been  realizv^d  ;  slia  had 
gained   possession   of  the   wardrobe   that  Miafo   K^Tvily 


THE    MAID    OF    THE    MILL.  101 

Stubbs  had  left  behind,  when  she  had  gone  to  foreign 
parts  with  her  officer  bridegroom.  The  costume  of 
this  true  Maid  of  the  Mill  had  suited  Janet  admi- 
rably —  the  little  mirror  in  her  apartment  had  shown 
her  it  was  not  unbecoming.  The  kindly  Mr.  St:ibbs 
was  willing  to  humor  her  fancy,  and  allow  her  to 
imagine  that,  in  occasionally  weeding  his  borders,  in 
drawing  the  water  from  the  light  bucket  in  the  well, 
and  filling  a  picturesque  pitcher  at  times,  that  she 
was  performing  the  duties  of  the  Maid  of  the  ^lill. 
To  these  services  she  at  length  added  another  —  that 
of  carrying  to  Mr.  Stubbs  his  noon-day  meal.  The 
good-hearted  man  was  willing  to  forgive  her,  when 
Sier  love  of  the  beautiful  occasionally  interfered  with 
^er  punctuality,  and  when  she  lingered  on  the  little 
bridge  to  watch  the  water  plunging  below,  or  some 
cloud  hovering  over  the  tree-tops  in  the  little  valley. 
Aunt  Milicent,  as  Janet  now  insisted  upon  calling 
her,  would  kindly  pass  over  in  silence  any  little 
mishap,  such  as  the  letting  fall  of  the  rustic  pail,  that 
Janet  occasionally  strove  to  bear  upon  her  head  in 
peasant  fashion ;  and  the  privileged  Janet  Avas  able 
to  taste  of  all  the  sweets  of  rural  life,  fancying  she 
was  bearing  its  burthens. 

It  was  one  lovely  day,  Janet  had  started  towards 
9* 


102  THE    MAID    OF    THE    MILL. 

the  mill,  with  her  little  pail  in  hand,  when  she  paused 
a  few  moments,  as  she  often  did,  to  look  up  the 
stream,  and  watch  the  sparkling  waters,  as  they 
trickled  along  their  rocky  bed,  with  the  long  plants 
drooping  over  them,  refreshed  by  the  dropping  spray. 
As  she  turned  away  her  head,  her  eyes  caught  those 
of  a  young  man,  who  was  leaning  on  a  fence  near 
by,  who  had  apparently  been  watching  her  for  some 
time.  He  moved  away  when  he  was  observed,  and 
Janet,  a  little  confused,  hastened  on.  But  her 
thoughts  all  day  were  filled  with  the  remembrance 
of  the  large  striking  eyes  that  had  been  fixed  upon 
her,  though  she,  at  the  same  time,  recalled  that  the 
young  man  had  been  simply  dressed,  and  from  his 
manner  she  had  fancied  he  must  be  one  of  the  farmers 
in  the  neighborhood.  Towards  evening,  as  Janet  was 
moving  about  in  the  cottage  garden  with  Mr.  Stubbs, 
the  same  young  man  was  seen  to  pass  along.  Mr. 
Stubbs  beckoned  him  in,  and  then  explained  to  Janet 
that  he  was  a  "  new  hand,"  that  he  had  employed 
only  a  few  days,  but  he  considered  him  a  smart  young 
man,  and  was  anxious  to  encourage  him.  Janet  turned 
away  as  Mr.  Stubbs  greeted  the  young  man  :  — "What 
a  pity,"  she  thought,  at  first,  "  that  his  station  is  not 
a  little  higher,  such  a  figure  and  such  eyes  as  he  has !  " 


THE    MAID    OF    THE    MILL.  103 

Afterwards,  she  reflected  that  such  were  the  characters 
she  had  wished  to  become  acquainted  with  ;  that 
honesty  and  sterling  worth  such  as  this  young  man's 
face  seemed  to  show,  ought  to  have  a  charm  in  her 
eyes  greater  than  the  gifts  of  intellect  or  of  position. 
Perhaps  the  simple  grace,  and  the  diffident,  reverential 
manner  of  the  young  man,  assisted  Janet  in  these 
conclusions ;  and  she  found  herself  soon  entering  into 
conversation  with  Mr.  Stubbs  and  his  guest.  This 
was  the  first  meeting,  but  was  followed  up  by  many 
others  with  Oswald  Lansing.  In  conversation,  he 
appeared  so  unassuming ;  he  showed  such  a  pure, 
even  refined  love  of  nature ;  and,  besides  these,  a 
desire  for  information  on  many  subjects,  that  Janet 
was  insensibly  attracted  towards  him.  He  appeared 
to  have  found  time  to  read  a  great  deal,  and  testified 
a  familiarity  with  the  poets.  Janet  was  glad,  too,  that 
fortune  had  favored  him  with  a  more  euphonious  name 
than  that  of  her  new  protector. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Janet,  one  evening,  as,  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Stubbs,  and  their  new  friend,  she  sate  in 
the  pretty  porch,  "  I  w'onder  if  any  of  the  truly 
high-born  ladies  did  ever  lay  aside  their  gay  life,  and 
live  happily  in  such  a  spot  as  this  ?  Or  are  there 
really   any  pleasures   greater   than  these,   such   as   we 


104  THE    MAID    OF    THE    MILL. 

enjoy  to-night,  which  they  would  look  back  upon 
with  regret?"  Janet,  with  her  new-formed  love  of 
rural  life,  asked  this  question  from  her  heart,  but  she 
tried  to  veil  it  under  her  assumed  character  of  the 
miller's  niece. 

"  I  have  often  wondered,  rather,"  said  Oswald, 
"  whether  Tennyson's  tale  of  Lord  Burleigh  can  be 
a  true  one.  Have  you  read  it.  Miss  Burns  ?  —  (Janet 
had  preserved,  in  her  retreat,  only  the  '  Janet  Burns ' 
of  her  name) — You  remember,  then,  that  the  village 
maiden,  as  the  wife  of  Lord  Burleigh,  could  not  sustain 
the  '  burthen  of  an  honor  unto  which  she  was  not 
born.'  " 

"  I  remember,"  said  Janet,  "  that  it  is  the  only 
time  I  ever  heard  of  any  one  dying  of  humility,  and 
I  have  wondered  if  that  were  a  possible  thing." 

"  People  have  suffered,"  said  Aunt  Milicent,  "  from 
thinking  they  were  not  great  enough  for  their  duties." 

"  It  is  my  private  opinion,"  said  Janet,  "  that  a 
woman  is  equal  to  any  rank,  and  can  become  it  well, 
if  she  has  only  the  heart  for  it.  And  I  believe  that 
the  Lady  Burleigh  suffered  more  from  the  deceit  her 
lover  had  played  off  upon  her  than  from  the  honors 
that  had  been  thrust  upon  her  shoulders." 

Oswald   wished    to    discuss    the    question,    to    show 


THE    MAID    OF    THE    MILL.  105 

that,  as  Lord  Burleigh,  the  viHage  maid  would  never 
have  recognized  as  a  lover  the  landscape  painter  whom 
she  could  listen  to.  But  Janet  was  afraid  she  was 
assuming  too  high  a  tone  for  her  present  character. 
She  was  constantly  surprised  at  the  quickness  and 
originality  of  Oswald's  mind.  "  How  much  move 
suggestive  and  fresh,"  she  thought,  "than  those  of 
my  old  lovers  ;  it  must  be  true,  then,  that  such  a 
life  as  this,  is  a  greater  awakener  of  genius,  than  one 
passed  in  the  conventionalities  of  society."  Oswald 
Lansing  had  discovered  that  Aunt  Milicent  and  Janet 
occasionally  devoted  some  hours  to  the  study  of 
Italian.  Much  to  Janet's  surprise,  he  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  join  them  at  times.  It  was  a  language 
which  he  had  coveted  the  knowledge  of.  His  reading 
of  Milton  had  excited  in  him  a  desire  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  language  of  that  country,  of 
which  that  great  poet  seemed  to  preserve  so  warm  a 
remembrance.  Janet  was  surprised  at  the  readiness 
of  their  new  scholar,  while  Oswald  was  on  his  side 
astonished  to  find  how  much  Janet  had  already 
acquired.  Thiis  many  weeks  passed  away.  Janet's 
daily  walks  to  the  mill  were  at  a  more  quick  pace 
than  formerly  ;  but,  in  returning,  she  would  linger 
along  the  path,  seemingly  deep  in   thought.     Oswald 


106  THE    MAID    or    THE    MILL. 

was  always  busily  at  work  at  the  mill,  full  of  animation 
in  his  occupation,  yet  ready  to  say  something  so  truly 
original,  and  sometimes  witty,  that  it  would  form  the 
subject  of  Janet's  thoughts  on  her  way  homeward. 

It  was  after  an  evening  at  the  cottage,  that  Oswald 
took  his  way  down  the  stream  towards  his  home. 
"  Can  it  be  possible  ?  "  said  he  to  himself,  "  that  all 
my  romantic  visions  are  realized?  Have  I  really 
found  a  country  maiden,  unsophisticated,  unacquainted 
with  city  airs  and  wiles,  who  adds  to  a  graceful  person 
and  face,  a  cultivated  mind,  or  one  quite  susceptible 
of  cultivation  ?  Such  refinement  of  manners,  too  ! 
How  much  more  meaning  is  there  in  a  single  motion 
of  Janet's,  than  in  the  set  airs  and  graces  of  a  gay 
lady  of  fashion  !  " 

Abstracted  in  these  thoughts,  Oswald  did  not 
observe  the  approach  of  an  angler,  who  was  lazily 
strolling  along,  till  he  was  roused  by '  an  excla- 
mation ;  — 

"  Oswald  !  Oswald  Lansing  !  —  thanks  to  the  new 
moon,  I  have  hit  upon  some  game  worthy  a  whole 
day's  angling!  And  so  we  have  come  upon  your 
concealed  retreat!  Here  it  is  that  the  philosopher 
finds  in  nature  that  peace  that  the  world  denies  him ! 
But  tell  me  now,  what  brought  you  here  to  this  dull. 


THE    MAID    OF    THE    MILL.  107 

quiet   nook  of  ttie  world,   what  keeps  you  here,  and 
will  you  come  away  with  me  to-morrow?" 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Oswald.  "  Why  should  not 
the  same  thing  draw  me  here  that  brought  you, 
Frank?" 

"And  in  costume,  too,  if  my  eyes  do  not  deceive 
me.  Is  that  an  Italian  debardeur's  dress,  or  is  it 
the  true  peasant  of  the  country  that  you  assume  ?  It 
is  not  unbecoming,  in  truth !  " 

"  It  is  appropriate  to  the  place,"  said  Oswald.  "  I 
tell  you  I  am  tired  of  your  drawing-room  life.  There 
is  more  variety  in  the  changes  that  morning,  noon, 
and  night  bring  on  this  little  valley,  on  the  little 
stream  that  flows  through  it,  with  its  picturesque 
bridge,  its  ancient  mill,  than" 

"  Oh,  a  mill !  — a  miller's  daughter,  perhaps  !  Have 
you  a  poem  upon  the  fair  maiden's  eyebrows  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Stubbs's  only  daughter  is  married,  and,  at 
present,  I  believe  in  India,  where  " 

"Where  you  would  not  object  to  my  following  her. 
But  I  am  not  inclined  to  accept  your  polite  invitation 
at  present.  I  would  give  you  a  day,  and  allow  you 
to  initiate  mc  into  rural  delights,  but  I  have  wasted 
my  only  spare  day  in  a  fruitless  search  after  the  trout 
that  my  innkeeper  promised  me  ;   so  this  night  is  all 


1;''^  THE    MAID    OF    THE    MILL. 

♦^iidt  I  can  bestow  upon  you,  and  you  must  show  me 
my  way  back  to  the  rural  mansion  where  I  hope  a 
savory  supper  is  awaiting  me." 

A  month  had  passed  away,  when,  as  Janet  sat  at 
the  cottage  window  with  Aunt  Milicent,  —  an  unac- 
customed sight,  a  letter,  was  brought  her.  Janet  read 
it  once,  twice,  then  gave  it  to  Aunt  Milicent ;  and,  at 
length,  when  she  had  concluded  it,  both  burst  out  into 
laughter,  of  which  Janet's  was  the  most  immoderate 
as  well  as  the  most  musical.  The  letter  was  from  one 
of  her  old  friends,  who  began  by  saying  she  had,  at 
last,  drawn  out  from  Aunt  Standfast  the  place  of 
Janet's  retreat;  and  knowing  she  must  be  famishing  for 
want  of  tidings  from  the  world,  she  had  seated  herseli 
to  write  her  a  gossiping  letter.  After  relating  Harry 
Stanton's  last  joke,  describing  the  last  fashion,  and 
giving  an  account  of  the  last  ball,  (which  Janet 
recognized  as  the  very  picture  of  all  the  balls  she  had 
ever  attended  in  B,,)  Maria  went  on,  —  "Pray,  in 
your  wilds,  did  you  ever  meet  with  Oswald  Lansing? 
Frank  Vivian  declares  that  he  fished  him  up,  in  just 
such  an  out-of-the-way  place,  with  just  such  an  unpro- 
nounceable name,  as  your  Aunt  Standfast  says  you 
have  retired  to.  He  would  be  a  real  jewel,  if  you 
jould  find  him !     He  is  rich  and  handsome,  then  he 


THE    MAID    OF    THE    MILL.  109 

is  the  best  polker  I  ever  knew,  and  has  the  greatest 
amount  of  small  talk  of  any  gentleman  of  my  acquaint- 
ance. Harry  Stanton  is  silent  before  him.  After 
flirting  with  all  the  girls  at  the  seaside,  where  I  met 
him  last  summer,  it  seems  he  has  retired,  in  disgust 
with  society.  But  I  must  tell  you  how  Harry  Stanton 
wears  his  willow  for  you  " 

But  Janet  neglected  to  notice  what  were  the  motions 
of  Harry  Stanton,  in  her  amusement  at  the  thought 
of  the  masquerade  she  had  been  playing  with  Oswald 
Lansing.  A  gleam  of  light  came  over  "  that  wonderful 
breadth  of  information  and  depth  of  intellect,"  that 
she  had  detected  in  the  young  rustic. 

In  the  midst  of  their  merriment,  Janet  and  Aunt 
Milicent  were  aroused  by  the  voice  of  Oswald  Lansing 
without  the  window.  He  wished  to  know  the  subject 
of  their  amusement.  Janet  answered  thoughtlessly,  by 
giving  Oswald  her  letter. 

Could  Janet  reconcile  herself  to  marrying  one  who 

was  a  leader  in  high  society  ?     Could   Oswald  forget 

his   dreams   of   elevating   a  maid   of   the   mill   to    that 

refined    circle    she   was   worthy   to    move    in  ?      These 

were  questions  that  were  quickly  answered.     A  rural 

cottage  rose  soon,  on  the  pretty  knoll  looking  down 

upon  the  mountain  stream.     Harry  Stanton  facetiously 
10 


110  THE    MAID    OF    THE    MILL. 

called  it  Stubbs's  Lodge  ;  but  Janet  and  (Jswald 
Lansing  were  quite  too  bappy  to  beed  tbe  idle  jokes 
of  their  old  society  friends.  Oswald  occasionally 
acknowledged  tbat  be  was  not  sorry  that  Janet  had 
already  compared  the  gay  life  of  the  world  with  the 
quiet  routine  of  her  country  home,  and  had  seen 
"  the  folly "  of  the  former  ;  while  Janet  was  obliged 
to  confess  that  beside  the  attractive  simplicity  she  had 
fancied  in  the  rustic  Oswald,  she  was  not  sorry  to 
have  a  refined  high  breeding,  that  he  must  have 
learned  elsewhere  than  in  the  mill  of  Sandisknowe. 
But  the  principal  ornament  of  the  new  cottage,  is  a 
sketch  of  Janet,  in  her  pretty  costume  as  the  "  Maid 
of  the  Mill,"  watching  the  flow  of  the  water. 


THE    HEART'S    AWAKENING 

BY  MRS.   NEWTON   CROSLAND. 

Only  yesterday  a  Child, 

She  the  little  rosy  maiden, 
Hers  the  glee  of  laughter  wild  ! 

Now  her  brow  with  thought  is  laden. 
From  behind  her  eyes  there  gleams 
Light  which  tells  of  stranger-dreams, 
Faint,  like  summer  morning  breaking, 
With  the  shadows  warfare  making ; 

It  is  waking  —  it  is  waking ! 


Gone  for  aye  the  childish  peace. 
Bounding,  trotting  at  our  call ; 

Slowlier,  with  a  sweeping  grace. 
See  her  tiny  foot-prints  fall : 

Silenter  the  babbling  tongue, 

When  her  elder  friends  among ; 


112  THE    heart's    awakening. 

Yet  her  speech  new  music  making, 
And  her  words  new  meaning  taking, 

Now  her  Girlish  Heart  is  waking ! 


She  hath  opened  Nature's  books. 

Leaf  by  leaf  they  turn  for  her ; 
And  her  soul,  as  still  she  looks, 

Heaveth  with  a  gentle  stir. 
Stars,  —  that  were  but  stars  before 
Shown  by  scientific  lore, 
Off  such  prosy  fetters  shaking,  — 
Are  with  spirit-lustre  breaking 

On  the  Heart  that's  newly  waking! 


She  will  sit  in  listless  thrall 

Gazing  on  a  fleecy  cloud; 
Or  upon  the  waterfall ; 

Or  upon  a  flowery  crowd ; 
Or  on  bee  and  butterfly ; 
Or  on  birds  that  climb  the  sky; 
As  she  were  dull  earth  forsaking — 
Life  from  dream-land  only  taking. 

Meet  for  Young  Hearts  just  awaking ! 


THE    heart's    awakening.  118 

There  is  yet  another  change 

For  the  pensive  little  maiden :  — 
Now  good  angels  near  her  range ; 

Be  their  white  wings  wisdom-laden ! 
She  no  longer  solely  looks 
Into  Nature's  extern  books, 

Though  she  musing  sits  apart : 
She  hath  found  a  subtler  teacher, 
And  a  more  impassioned  preacher, 

In  her  wakened  Woman's  Heart 
10* 


THE    ADVENTURES    OF    CAKL,U    JfJXANCONI, 

AN  ITALIAN  FEASANT.   BELATED  BY  HIMSELF. 

TRANSLATED   BY   MRS.    JAMBS   WHITTLE. 

My  parents  resided  within  a  short  distance  of 
Campiano,  one  of  those  mountain  villages  remote 
from  the  high  road,  and  rarely  visited  by  strangers ; 
here  they  possessed  a  small  farm,  and  were  at  the  time 
of  my  birth  amongst  the  wealthiest  people  of  the 
district.  One  of  the  earliest  events  I  can  remember 
was  the  festival  in  celebration  of  the  christening  of 
my  little  sister ;  relations  and  friends  came  from  miles 
around,  and  during  several  days  kept  up  one  continued 
scene  of  festivity  and  dancing.  My  childish  heart  was 
delighted  with  the  bright,  gay  costumes  of  the  women, 
pleasant  stories,  and  friendly  faces  of  the  men,  the 
music,  dancing,  and  usual  accompaniments  of  such  a 
festival.  Yet  with  all  my  pleasure,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  the  little  being,  whose  admittance  into  the  church 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  CAKLO  FRANCONI.    lio 

of    Christ    had    given    rise    to    all    this    gayety,    was 
forgotten ;    and    I    stole    away    from    the    busy    scene, 
climbed  up  the  steep  and  narrow  stairs,  and,  kneeling 
down  beside   the  cradle,  gazed  on  her,  as  a  devotee 
upon  the  image  of  the  Virgin  Mother.     The  child  at 
length  awoke  and   began   to  cry.     I   took  her  in  my 
arms ;    and,   as  if  conscious   of  the   love   that  swelled 
within    my  heart,    she   soon   ceased    her   wailing,    and 
nestling   in   my   bosom,    again   fell   asleep.     A  feeling 
then   arose   in   my   heart   which   influenced  my   whole 
after-life.     Nanina  !  gioja  mia  !   as  I  then  watched  your 
slumbers,  I  tasted  the  bliss  that  crowns  man's  life  with 
rapture,    of  loving    and    protecting    a  beloved    object. 
The  birth  of  this  sister  had  been  a  source  of  intense 
happiness  to  me.     Child  as  I  was,  (at  that  time  but  six 
years  old,)  I  felt  when  first  her  dark  eyes  opened  on 
me,  that  life  became  brighter  and  happier.     As  years 
passed    on   we    were    inseparable ;     we    neglected    the 
companions    of  our    own   age,    and    knew''  no    greater 
pleasure    than    to    wander   hand-in-hand    through   the 
mountain  pastures,  watching  the  sheep  and   goats  as 
they  browsed    on   the   scanty  herbage    around    us.     I 
cannot   define   the   thoughts   and   feelings   which  then 
filled  our  young  hearts  to  overflowing;  it  seemed  as 
if  every  thing  in  Nature  spoke  to  us. 


116   THE  ADVENTURES  OF  CARLO  FRANCONI. 

Ill  this  blissful  state  our  first  years  were  passed,  and 
another  infant  was  added  to  our  little  family.  Sorrow 
was  as  yet  unknown  to  us ;  but  soon,  too  soon,  alas ! 
it  came  —  how  sudden,  how  desolating  was  the  evil 
that  befel  us !  One  morning  early  in  the  month  of 
July,  Nanina  and  I  had  risen  betimes  to  accompany 
our  parents  to  the  neighboring  town  of  San  Stefano, 
where  the  annual  festival  of  the  Madonna  dei  Fiori  was 
to  be  celebrated.  We  had  never  before  quitted  our 
village,  and  the  proposed  journey  filled  us  with 
delight.  Two  mules  were  brought  to  the  door,  on 
one  of  which  my  mother  was  quickly  mounted,  with 
Nanina  before  her ;  the  other  was  intended  for  me, 
while  our  father  walked  beside  us.  The  day,  though 
cloudy  and  unpromising,  had  but  little  influence  on 
our  gayety ;  and  as  we  climbed  the  steep  mountain, 
we  talked  and  laughed  merrily,  regardless  of  the 
stormy  clouds  that  gathered  around  us.  Wlien  we 
reached  the' summit,  the  rain  began  to  fall,  but  the 
valley  beneath  us  was  bathed  in  sunshine,  and  we 
hastened  forward ;  behind  us  all  was  darkness ;  black 
masses  of  clouds  obscured  the  horizon,  and  a  dense  fog 
veiled  Campiano  from  our  sight.  On  reaching  San 
Stefano,  however,  all  trace  of  storm  had  disappeared ; 
the   sun   shone    down   with    golden    splendor ;    crowds 


THE  ADVENTURES  OE  CARLO  EEANCONI.    117 

were  thronging  to  early  mass  in  the  principal  church, 
and  acquaintances  greeted  us  at  every  step.  Arches 
and  festoons  of  flowers  decorated  the  streets,  and 
garlands  of  ribbons  and  bright  pieces  of  carpet  were 
displayed  from  the  windows  of  the  houses ;  the  steps 
and  centre  aisle  of  the  church  were  strewn  with 
flowers ;  hundreds  of  tapers  burned  on  the  high  altar ; 
and  before  the  shrines,  ornamented  with  pictures  and 
statues,  knelt  crowds  of  men,  women,  and  children, 
in  various  and,  to  us,  novel  costumes.  On  quitting 
the  church,  we  joined  a  procession  of  priests  and  friars, 
which  accompanied  the  image  of  the  Madonna,  in 
whose  honor  the  Festa  was  held.  This  figure  Avas 
once  a  year  borne  through  the  streets  with  great 
solemnity,  and  presented  to  the  adoration  of  the 
people ;  it  was  placed  on  a  platform,  and,  covered 
as  it  was  with  gold,  silver,  and  artificial  flowers,  it 
seemed  to  iis  the  most  beautiful  and  wonderful  sight 
we  had  ever  beheld. 

When  we  had  seen  the  Madonna  conveyed  back  to 
the  #hurch,  we  hastened  to  the  house  of  a  relative 
where  it  had  been  agreed  that  we  should  pass  the 
night,  returning  to  Campiano  the  following  morning. 
During  the  afternoon,  the  sky  again  became  overcast, 
and    the   ridge   of  mountains   we   had   passed    in   the 


118        THE    ADVENTUKES    OF    CAKLO    FKANCONI. 

morning  was  hidden  by  dark  and  heavy  clouds ;  thk 
wind  suddenly  rose  and  blew  a  hurricane,  Avhile  the 
rain  fell  in  torrents.  My  father,  who  well  knew  the 
nature  of  these  storms,  became  uneasy ;  his  eye 
wandered  restlessly  to  the  hills  behind  which  lay  our 
home,  and  turning  to  my  mother,  he  said,  "  Would 
to  God,  Francesca,  that  we  were  safe  at  home !  "  The 
storm  continued  through  the  night ;  but  it  was  evident 
that  its  greatest  violence  had  been  spent  before  it 
reached  San  Stefano.  The  morning  dawned  in 
loveliness ;  all  Nature  seemed  refreshed  by  the  late 
rain,  and  my  father  reanimated  by  the  scene,  cast 
aside  the  gloomy  forebodings  of  the  night.  We  took 
our  departure  early,  and  slowly  wended  our  way  up 
the  narrow  road,  which  was  slippery  with  the  late 
rain ;  but  our  sure-footed  mules  marched  steadily  on, 
and  w6  reached  the  summit  in  safety.  "WTiat  a  scene 
then  met  our  eyes !  what  terror  seized  upon  our  hearts 
as  we  gazed  below !  The  country  around  Campiano 
was  converted  into  a  vast  lake,  from  which  the 
village,  placed  on  an  eminence,  rose  like  an  island. 
The  Taro  had  burst  its  banks,  and  the  whole  valley 
was  inundated.  My  father  turned  to  vis  in  speechless 
horror,  and  my  mother  falling  on  her  knees,  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands.     No  time,  however,  was  to  be  lost, 


THE  ADVENTUKES  OF  CARLO  FEANCONl.    119 

and  we  hurried  down  the  mountain.  The  viHagers 
were  watching  our  descent,  and  where  the  waters 
rendered  it  impossible  to  proceed  on  mules,  they  had 
a  boat  in  readiness  to  transport  us  to  the  village. 

Never  can  I  forget  the  awful  scenes  that  met  our 
eyes  as  we  rowed  on ;  we  saw  within  a  few  hundred 
yards  of  us  the  spot  where  our  home  had  stood ; 
house,  out-buildings,  all  had  disappeared,  and  the 
rushing  waters  flowed  over  the  ruins.  The  Taro, 
foaming  and  boiling,  rolled  on,  its  former  bed  marked 
by  the  greater  strength  of  tte  current ;  beams  and 
rafters  of  houses,  dead  bodies  of  animals,  and,  still 
more  horrible,  of  men  were  drifting  down  the  tide. 
As  we  gazed,  my  father's  face  became  deadly  pale, 
and  my  mother  clasped  her  hands  in  agony,  when 
they  beheld  a  cradle  tossed  on  the  agitated  waves. 
"  My  child,  my  child  !  "  shrieked  the  wretched  mother, 
but  ere  the  words  had  passed  her  lips,  the  cradle  was 
overwhelmed,  and  disappeared.  This  was  but  the  first 
of  a  series  of  trials.  The  river  had  swept  away  all 
that  we  possessed.  Ere  the  domestics  left  in  charge 
of  the  premises  could  escape,  death  had  overtaken 
them :  not  one  was  left  to  tell  the  tale  of  desolation. 

We  readily  found  shelter  in  the  village,  for  my 
father's  high   character   and  kindly   nature  had  made 


120    THE  AUVENTUKES  OF  CARLO  FKANCCMl. 

him  universally  beloved ;  every  one  pitied  Bernardo 
Franconi,  and  many  doors  were  opened  to  receive 
tlip  houseless  family.  Night  closed  on  the  dismal 
spectacle,  but  brought  no  rest  to  my  poor  father ;  he 
was  a  ruined  man ;  all,  all  had  perished  in  this  dire 
catastrophe  —  all,  save  his  wife,  Nanina,  and  myself. 
I  remember  to  this  hour  the  expression  of  his  face,  as, 
clasping  my  mother  to  his  heart,  he  said,  "  God  leaves 
me  you,  Francesca  ;  blessed  be  His  holy  name  ! " 

But  even  this  source  of  happiness  was  not  long 
spared  to  him.  My  mother,  at  all  times  in  delicate 
health,  never  recovered  the  effects  of  that  dreadful 
night ;  her  rest  was  broken  by  the  fancied  cries  of 
her  drowning  child,  and  though  she  strove  to  keep 
the  knowledge  of  her  state  from  us  all,  she  yet  knew 
that  she  was  dying ;  and  soon,  before  the  spring 
flowers  succeeded  to  the  Avinter  floods,  she  was  laid 
in  her  quiet  grave.  From  that  time  I  never  saw 
my  father  smile;  he  was  kind,  and  careful  to  provide 
what  comforts  he  could  for  us,  but  his  heart  was 
broken ;  I  have  seen  him  sit  and  gaze  upon  Nanina, 
until  his  eyes  were  blinded  with  tears ;  her  beauty 
and  gentleness  so  forcibly  reminded  him  of  his 
Francesca,  that  her  presence  only  gave  him  pam 
instead    of     comfort.       By    the    assistance    of     some 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  CARLO  FRANCONI.    I'Z  I 

rel:itives    he    established     himself    in    another    little 

farm ;     but   he   was    listless    and    dispirited,    and    our 

present   was    a    sad    contrast    to    our    former    home. 

Repressed  in  all  expression  of  cheerfulness  or  childish 

glee,   by   the   silent   sorrow   of  our  father,   we   sought 

amusement    in    the    village ;    and    amongst    the    many 

houses  in  which  we  were  welcome  guests,  none  had 

such  powerful  attractions  for  us,  as  one  small  cottage. 

There  is  something  beautiful  in  the  friendship  that  at 

times  springs   up   between   the  old  and   young,   when 

age  remembering  its  early  days,  gives  warm  and  loving 

sympathy   to   youth,    and    youth    laying    aside   its   too 

boisterous  mirth,  listens  reverently  to  the  teaching  of 

age.     Pietro  Dossi,  the  aged  inhabitant  of  our  favorite 

cottage,  had  in  his  younger  days  visited  many  distant 

lands ;  travelling  from  place  to  place  in  company  w  ith 

other  boys,  as  a  vender  of  images,  he  had  at  length 

amassed  a  sura  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  realize  his 

early   dream   of  purchasing   a   small   piece   of  land  in 

the   neighborhood   of  his   native  village ;  this   he  had 

cultivated  with  his  own  hands,  until  the  approach  of 

age  rendered   repose   necessary   to  him,   and    he  now 

dwelt    in    Campiano    surrounded    by    his    old    friends, 

honored     and     respected     by    all     who     knew    him, 

imparting,  from  his  store  of  traveller's  tales,  pleasure 
11 


122        THE    ADVENTTJKES    OF    CARLO    FKANCONI. 

and  instruction  to  the  young.  Nanina  and  I  were  nevei 
happier  than  when  listening  to  him,  —  she  seated  on 
the  old  man's  knee,  and  I,  sitting  at  his  feet  playing 
with  Jacopo,  the  pet  monkey,  who  was  Pietro's  sole 
companion.  He  related  his  adventures  for  our  diver- 
sion;  and  as  he  told  of  foreign  countries,  I  longed  to 
follow  in  his  track,  and  see  and  learn  for  myself.  This 
desire  grew  stronger  and  stronger  within  me ;  but  the 
thought  of  my  father  and  his  loneliness,  checked  its 
fulfilment.  Events,  however,  soon  happened  which, 
by  throwing  me  on  ray  own  resources,  opened  my 
path  to  England,  for  it  was  to  London  that  all  my 
longings  turned. 

I  had  barely  attained  my  fourteenth  year,  and 
Nanina  was  in  her  ninth,  when  my  father  was 
suddenly  attacked  by  a  fever,  which  in  a  few  days 
carried  him  to  his  grave.  We  were  now  left  orphans 
in  a  world  of  which  we  as  yet  knew  nothing ;  strangers 
alike  to  the  cold  unkindness  and  to  the  genuine  benev- 
Dlence,  that  have  in  turn  chilled  our  hearts  or  cheered 
jur  wandering  steps  in  foreign  lands.  I  was  too 
young  to  undertake  the  management  of  a  farm;  and 
as  my  father,  since  our  heavy  loss,  had  only  rented 
a  few  acres  of  land,  it  was  soon  arranged  that  we 
should  quit  our  home. 


THE  ADVENTUKES  OF  CARLO  EKANCONI.   123 

In  our  sorrow  we  had  repaired  to  Pietro  for 
sympathy  and  counsel  :  to  him  I  revealed  the 
longing  of  my  heart  ;  and,  entering  at  once  into 
my  views,  he  offered  to  give  me,  as  my  stock  in 
trade,  my  playmate  Jacopo,  the  monkey.  I  was 
unwilling  to  deprive  him  of  his  old  favorite ;  but  he 
said  that  Nanina  should  live  with  him  during  my 
absence,  and  thus  his  gain  would  be  greater  than 
mine.  Poor  Nanina  heard  my  proposal  with  dismay : 
she  could  not  imagine  a  life  in  which  I  should  have 
no  share,  and  at  first  she  opposed  herself  vehemently 
to  my  leaving  her.  "With  tears  and  sobs  she  implored 
me  to  take  her  with  me ;  but  to  this  -Pietro  opposed 
so  many  arguments,  that  at  last  she  seemed  to  yield 
assent.  She  now  busied  herself  in  preparing  my  little 
wardrobe,  which  was  carefully  tied  up  in  a  handker- 
chief, and  fastened  to  my  back.  Jacopo  was  gayly 
dressed  in  a  new  suit  of  scarlet  cloth,  and  Nanina  had 
attached  to  his  collar  a  blue  ribbon  which  she  took 
from  her  own  slender  waist.  Putting  this  into  my 
hand,  she  kissed  me  passionately,  and,  leading  me  to 
the  door,  said,  "  Carlo,  you  will  see  me  in  your 
dreams."  I  did  not  then  heed  her  words,  but  had 
afterwards  good  cause  to  remember  them ;  I  then 
wondered    at   her    calmness,    and    thought    she    could 


124       THE    ADVENTURES    OF    CARLO    EEANCONI. 

not  love  me  as  I  loved  her ;  for  my  own  heart  was 
torn  with  anguish  at  leaving  her,  while  she  seemed 
cheerful,  and  parted  from  me  with  a  smile. 

With  a  heavy  heart  I  ascended  the  hill  from  which 
I  was  to  take  the  last  view  of  my  native  village. 
When  I  reached  its  summit  I  sat  down  on  the  grass, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  felt  the  misery  of  utter 
loneliness.  I  strove  to  recall  the  delight  with  which 
I  had  dreamed  of  setting  out  on  this  journey,  but  in 
vain.  Nanina's  image  rose  before  my  mind ;  and, 
covering  my  face  with  my  hands,  I  burst  into  tears. 
I  soon  however  remembered,  that  although  I  should 
no  longer  be  near  to  love  and  guard  her,  God  and 
the  Virgin  would  still  protect  my  sister ;  and  to  their 
care  I  now  solemnly  committed  her.  I  felt  that, 
though  I  should  no  longer  walk  forth  with  her  to 
see  the  rising  sun  gild  our  beloved  mountains,  or 
Avatch  the  moon  shedding  her  soft  light  over  the 
scenes  endeared  to  us  by  memory,  yet  wherever  I 
wandered,  the  same  sun  and  the  same  moon  svould 
shine  on  lus  that  shone  on  Nanina ;  and  in  this  thought 
I  found  much  consolation.  Then,  gaining  hope  from 
the  future,  my  heart  leaped  with  joy  to  think  of  the 
time  when  I  should  again  return  to  Campiano,  and 
pour  the  riches  gathered  in  my  travels  at  Nanina's  feet 


THE    ADVENTURES    OF    CA.RLO    FKANCONI.        125 

Tkoughts  such  as  these  gave  wings  to  my  feet,  and 
1  ran  briskly  down  the  hill  that  led  to  Vizerano. 
There  I  was  to  spend  my  first  lonely  night.  I  was 
unused  to  beg,  and  it  was  with  a  timid  step  that  I 
approached  a  small  but  well-stocked  farm-house  that 
lay  in  my  road.  I  did  not  ask  for  food  :  Pietro  had 
carefully  stored  my  little  wallet  with  what  would  last 
me  several  days :  I  only  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
shelter  my  weary  limbs  in  the  barn.  My  request  was 
kindly  granted;  and,  after  sharing  a  morsel  of  bread 
with  Jacopo,  and  taking  a  draught  of  milk  which  the 
good  woman  gave  me,  I  lay  down  on  a  bundle  of 
straw,  with  my  monkey  nestling  close  to  me,  and 
fell  asleep  thinking  of  Nanina.  Early  in  the  morning, 
a  faint  streak  of  light  falling  on  my  face  aroused  me  — 
was  I  awake,  or  was  it  only  a  dream  ?  —  beside  me 
sat  a  figure,  so  beautiful,  that  for  a  moment  I  took 
it  for  the  good  angel  who  is  said  to  watch  over 
the  slumbers  of  young  children ;  yet  it  had  the  form 
and  face  of  my  sister.  I  started  up,  and,  rubbing  my 
eyes  to  assure  myself  that  it  was  no  dream,  I  found 
myself  clasped  in  Nanina's  arms.  "  Oh  !  Carlo,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  did  you  think  that  I  could  live  without 
you?  You  must  not  send  me  back,  for  I  should  die, 
away  from  you.  Let  me  go  where  you  go :  I  will 
11* 


126        THE    ADVENTtTRES    OF    CARLO    FRANCONI. 

never  vex  you,  if  you  will  only  let  me  follow  you." 
With  these  words  she  clung  to  me  with  an  energy  it 
was  in  vain  to  resist ;  and,  as  I  returned  her  embrace, 
I  felt  that  death  alone  should  ever  again  separate  us. 

As  we  journeyed  on,  Nanina  told  me  how  she  had 
stolen  away  when  Pietro  thought  she  was  in  bed, 
and  creeping  softly  down,  had  set  off  in  the  twilight. 
She  had  heard  Pietro  describe  the  house  at  which  I 
was  to  sleep,  and  reaching  it  in  the  early  dawn,  she 
entered  the  barn,  and  taking  her  station  beside  me, 
had  patiently  watched  for  my  awakening.  We  spoke 
of  our  dear  Pietro,  and  grieved  for  his  loneliness,  thus 
left  without  Jacopo  or  Nanina,  but  we  soon  forgot  this 
sorrow  in  our  joy  of  being  together,  and  proceeded  on 
our  way,  until  after  some  hours  we  came  within  sight 
of  a  large  town. 

We  now  began  our  trade,  and  soon  a  crowd  of  boys 
gathered  round  us,  attracted  by  Jacopo's  gambols. 
Nanina,  amused  by  the  laughter  and  delight  of  the 
children,  excited  him  to  show  off  all  his  tricks ;  and 
when  at  last  putting  her  hat  into  his  paw,  he  ran 
round  the  circle,  bowing  and  grimacing  to  each 
individual,  and  soliciting  charity  in  his  own  facetious 
way,  it  was  returned  with  more  money  in  it  than  we 
had  ever  before  possessed,  and  we  pursued  our  journey 


THE  ADTENTURES  OF  CARLO  PEANCONI.    127 

in  good  spirits.  Pietro  had  desired  me  not  to  sleep  in 
any  town,  cautioning  me  that  my  funds  would  soon 
melt  away  if  I  trusted  to  the  hospitality  of  cities ; 
we  therefore  journeyed  on  from  place  to  place,  meeting 
with  various  fortune,  but  on  the  whole  with  kindness 
and  liberality.  Whenever,  weary,  hungry,  and  foot- 
sore, Ave  were  refused  the  shelter  we  solicited,  we 
comforted  each  other  with  the  thought  of  London, 
recounted  the  wonders  we  had  heard,  and  creeping 
close  to  each  other,  fell  asleep  under  a  hedge, 
dreaming  of  rich,  beautiful  England. 

Our  way  lay  through  France ;  and  the  kind-hearted 
peasantry,  who  were  then  busied  in  the  vintage,  often 
invited  us  to  join  their  noon-day  meal.  It  was  a 
lovely  autumn,  and  as  yet  we  had  experienced  no 
severe  weather ;  an  occasional  storm  drove  us  to  seek 
shelter  beneath  some  shed,  or  wide  spreading  tree,  but 
we  were  too  well  inured  to  a  mountain  life  to  fear  what 
rain  or  wind  could  do  to  us.  At  length  we  reached 
Boulogne,  and  by  this  time  our  little  stock  of  money 
enabled  us  boldly  to  take  our  passage  in  a  vessel  that 
was  sailing  for  London.  Poor  Nanina  was  terrified 
when  she  saw  the  steamboat,  and  was  told  that  in  it 
she  would  sail  away  on  to  the  wide  sea.  I  comforted 
her  as  best  I  could,  hiding  my  own  fears  that  I  might 


128        THE    ADVENTURES    OF    CAKLO    FEANCONl. 

not  add  to  hers.  We  had  a  fine  passage,  and  about 
noon  entered  the  Thames.  The  sight  of  the  num- 
berless vessels  that  crowded  the  noble  river  filled 
us  with  astonishment,  and  Nanina's  exclamations  of 
natural  and  unfeigned  delight  interested  many  of  the 
passengers  for  us.  One  young  lady  came  to  us,  and 
sitting  down  by  Nanina  began  to  speak  to  her ;  but, 
alas !  not  one  word  could  we  understand ;  we  could 
only  shake  our  heads  in  reply,  when  much  to  our 
surprise  she  addressed  us  in  our  own  beloved  language, 
asking  where  we  came  from,  and  what  we  were  going 
to  d6.  Nanina  simply  replied,  that  we  were  come 
from  Campiano  to  London,  to  make  our  fortune;  at 
which  the  young  lady  smiled.  We  told  her  that  we 
were  going  to  see  a  friend  of  our  father's,  who  lived 
in  London,  and  who  would,  we  were  sure,  take  care 
of  us.  She  looked  at  us  sorrowfully,  and  stroking 
back  Nanina's  raven  locks  said,  "  poor  children ! " 
(poveretti,)  and  then  turning  to  a  gentleman  spoke 
to  him  in  English.  I  am  sure  she  asked  him  to  be 
kind  to  us,  for  w^hen  the  vessel  stopped  at  the  great 
Custom  House  in  London,  the  lady  bade  us  keep 
close,  and  follow  them  on  shore.  What  we  should 
liave  done  but  for  their  care,  God  only  knows.  We 
■were  so  pushed  and  jostled  by  the  crowds  of  people 


THE    jfDYENTURES    OP    CAELO    FKANCONI.        129 

who  were  hurrying  to  land,  that  Nanina  began  to 
cry ;  but  the  kind  gentleman  lifting  her  in  his  arms 
carried  her  safely  to  shore,  and  placed  her  on  a  large 
trunk  beside  his  daughter,  then  calling  a  little  carriage 
he  put  us  into  it  v/ith  Jacopo,  and,  paying  the  driver 
his  fare,  told  him  to  take  us  to  the  place  where  we 
hoped  to  find  our  friend. 

It  was  now  dark ;  the  lamps  were  lighted,  and 
as  we  drove  rapidly  along  the  streets,  our  surprise 
was  excited  by  the  brilliant  gas-lights,  and  Nanina 
contiually  exclaimed,  "  See  !  Carlo,  see  !  how  beautiful ; 
another,  and  another !  and  the  fine  shops,  and  crowds 
of  people;  London  is,  indeed,  beautiful!"  Still  we 
drove  on ;  there  seemed  no  end  of  streets  and  houses ; 
my  brain  whMed,  and  I  scarcely  knew  Avhether  I  were 
waking  or  dreaming.  At  last  we  turned  into  a  narrow 
lane,  and  soon  our  driver  checked  his  horse,  and  I 
heard  him  say  something  I  did  not  understand,  but  I 
knew  by  his  mentioning  the  name  of  Manelli  that  we 
must  be  near  our  destination ;  he  drove  on  a  few  steps, 
and  then  opening  the  door  signed  to  us  to  alight. 
Taking  Nanina' s  hand,  with  Jacopo  seated  on  my 
shoulder,  I  followed  a  boy  who  led  the  way  through  a 
dark  passage  to  a  house,  at  the  door  of  which  he 
knocked  and  then  left  us ;  it  opened  as  by  magic,  and 


130   THE  APVENTUEES  OF  CAKLO  FRANCONI. 

a  loud  voice  called  to  us  from  the  top  of  the  stairs  in 
no  very  gentle  tones.  I  was  afraid  we  had  been 
wrongly  directed,  and  Nanina,  terrified  at  our  strange 
situation,  the  darkness  and  the  harsh  sounds  of  the 
English  tongue,  followed  me  up  the  steep  stairs, 
clinging  tightly  to  my  arm.  At  the  head  of  the 
stairs  we  found  a  woman  with  a  candle  in  her  hand; 
she  spoke  roughly  to  us,  and  I  suppose  asked  what 
we  wanted.  I  blushed  and  stammered,  and  drawing 
from  my  pocket  a  letter  which  had  lain  carefully 
concealed  there  since  I  left  Campiano,  I  gave  it  to 
her,  saying,  "II  Signor  Manelli  e  in  casa?"  She 
grumbled  out  some  angry  words,  but  a  voice  from 
the  interior  of  the  room  replied,  "  Si,  si,  entrate : 
son  qui,  cosa  volete  ? "  These  words,  uttered  in  oui 
tiwn  sweet  language,  reassured  me,  and  we  entered. 
Manelli  was  seated  at  his  table,  employed  by  the  light 
of  a  powerful  lamp,  in  constructing  something,  which  I 
afterwards  found  was  a  barometer ;  he  seemed  a  man 
about  forty  years  of  age,  and  the  kind  expression  of 
his  countenance  encouraged  me  to  speak  to  him.  I 
related  my  simple  tale,  and  asked  if  he  remembered 
Pietro  Dossi,  who  had  given  me  the  letter  for  him. 
At  the  mention  of  his  name  Manelli's  face  brightened ; 
"Remember  him,"  said  he,  "yes,  truly,  we  were  dearer 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  CARLO  FRANCONI.    131 

to  each,  other  than  brothers."  He  then  kissed  Nanina, 
and  bade  us  hearty  welcome  to  his  home.  I  saw, 
however,  that  our  arrival  was  by  no  means  so  agreeable 
to  the  woman  who  had  shown  us  to  the  room,  and  soon 
an  angry  contest  ensued  between  her  and  Manelli  upon 
the  subject.  It  ended  by  our  being  provided  with 
supper,  and  told  to  lie  down  on  some  straw  in  a  corner 
of  the  room,  where,  tired  and  exhausted,  we  soon  fell 
asleep.  In  the  morning  Manelli  took  me  aside,  and 
told  me  that  the  woman  I  saw  was  his  wife  ;  that  she 
was  an  Englishwoman,  and  could  speak  but  little 
Italian ;  that  she  was  really  good  and  kind-hearted, 
but  had  a  strange  way  of  showing  it,  and  that  unless 
Nanina  and  I  could  resolve  to  be  obedient  to  her, 
and  do  all  she  asked,  we  must  make  up  our  minds  to 
bear  many  a  scolding.  He  added  that  he  was  too  poor 
to  maintain  us  in  idleness,  and  proposed  that  I  should 
go  out  into  the  streets  with  my  monkey  and  see  what 
I  could  earn,  while  Nanina  remained  at  home  to  help 
his  wife.  I  did  not  like  the  plan,  I  was  afraid  that 
Madame  (as  we  were  bid  to  call  her)  would  be  harsh 
to  Nanina ;  but  as  Manelli  spoke  kindly,  and  as  if  he 
desired  really  to  help  us,  I  acceded  to  his  wish,  ana 
sallied  forth,  begging  Madame  to  take  care  of  my  little 
sister,   and    promising  to   bring  back   what   I   earned, 


132        THE    ADVENTURES    OF    CARLO    ERANCONI. 

to  pay  for  our  supper ;  she  gave  me  a  crust  of  bread 
to  eat  when  I  was  hungry,  and  desired  me  to  be 
careful  of  my  money. 

My  first  day's  ramble  produced  but  little ;  I  was 
bewildered  by  the  novel  sights  and  sounds  that  met 
me  at  every  step,  and  wandered  on  from  street  to 
street,  forgetful  of  the  object  of  my  expedition,  until 
tired  of  walking,  I  sat  down  on  a  door-step  to  eal 
my  bread.  I  then  remembered,  that,  if  I  took  nothing 
home  with  me,  Nanina  and  I  were  to  have  no  supper ; 
and  seeiiig  that  Jacopo's  attempts  to  snatch  the  food 
from  my  mouth  faster  than  I  could  put  it  in,  had 
already  collected  a  little  crowd  around  me,  I  excited 
him  to  more  and  more  antics ;  each  new  trick  elicited 
fresh  bursts  of  merriment  from  the  bystanders,  and 
when  I  held  my  hat  and  said,  as  Madame  had  taught 
me,  "  Give  a  penny  to  poor  Italian  boy,"  many  were 
dropped  into  it.  Elated  by  my  success,  I  now  tried 
to  retrace  my  steps,  anxious  to  show  my  gains,  and 
feeling  richer  than  I  had  ever  been  before,  for  amongst 
the  pence  I  found  a  silver  coin,  which  seemed  to  me  a 
fortune  in  itself;  this  I  intended  to  give  Nanina :  but 
Avhen  I  reached  our  miserable  lodging,  the  landlady 
seized  upon  me,  insisted  on  my  showing  her  all  my 
money,    and    grumbling    that   it   was   no   more,    told 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF    CARXO  FKANCONJ    133 

me  we  could  have  little  supper  that  night.  I  was 
indignant  at  this  treatment,  but  a  look  from  Manelli 
checked  the  angry  words  which  were  ready  to  burst 
from  my  lips.  Nanina  was  silent,  and  I  thought  I 
saw  traces  of  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  did  not  venture 
to  ask  their  cause,  for  I  had  begun  to  tremble  before 
Madame.  As  we  fell  asleep,  Nanina  whispered  softly, 
"  Carlo,  do  not  leave  me ;  I  will  go  with  you."  The 
next  day  I  proposed  that  she  should  accompany  me, 
but  this  Madame  vehemently  opposed,  threatening  to 
turn  us  both  out  of  doors  if  I  dared  again  to  speak 
of  such  a  plan,  and  adding,  that  I  had  better  take 
care  to  bring  home  more  money,  as  she  could  not 
keep  us  for  nothing.  Days  and  weeks  passed  on, 
during  which  our  life  continued  much  what  I  have 
described  it ;  Madame  was  kind  or  cross  in  propor- 
tion to  the  money  I  brought  home,  and  I  gradually 
became  more  and  more  afraid  of  her.  I  could  not 
help  sometimes  asking  myself  where  was  all  the  kind- 
heartedness  which  Manelli  had  told  us  we  should  find 
in  Madame,  and  I  often  wondered  why  he,  who  really 
loved  us,  did  not  interfere  in  our  behalf;  but  I  found 
out  afterwards,  that  he  stood  in  as  much  awe  of  his 
wife  as  I  did. 

After  some  months  I  began  to  feel  that,  with  all  my 
12 


1*4    THE  ADVENTURES  OF    CAKLO  rKANCONI. 

Iibor,  I  had  not  laid  by  a  single  shilling  towards  the 

object  that  was  ever  present  to  my  thoughts.     I  dared 

not  ask  to  be  allowed  to  do  so,  but  the  thought  made 

me  miserable.     I  saw,  too,  that  Nanina  was  changed  ; 

the  brightness  of  her  eyes  was  dimmed,  the  elastic  step 

was  gone,  and,  what  was  worst  of  all,  her  merry  laugh 

w^as  hushed ;   she  was  pale  and  languid,  and  I  thought 

she  drooped  like  a  flower  shut  out  from  light  and  air. 

She  had  ceased   to   ask  to   accompany  me,  but  often 

when  I  left  her,  I  saw  the  tears  spring  to  her  eyes ;  she 

never  complained,  but  I  knew  she  was  unhappy,  and  1 

determined  that  we  would  leave  Manelli's  house,  and 

try  our  fortunes  in  the  world  alone  once  more.     My 

resolution  was  strengthened  by  a  circumstance  which 

awakened  me  more  fully  to  the  real  state  of  afiairs. 

Returning  earlier  than  usual  one  afternoon,  I  heard 

in   ascending   the   stairs   the  screams  of  a  child ;  as  1 

listened  my  heart  stood  still ;  could  it  be  Nanina,  my 

darling  Nanina  ?     Again  the  sound  struck  on  my  ear. 

It  ivas  her  voice !  and  amidst  cries   of  pain   I  heard 

her  say,  "  Let  me  go,  let  me  go,  indeed  I  did  not  tell 

him ;  I  will  never  let  Carlo  know  how  you  beat  me, 

only   let   me    go   now,   I    will    do    all    j^ou   bid   me." 

Furious,  and  not  knowing  what  I  did,  I  rushed  into 

the  room,   flew  upon  Madame,   who   was  raising  her 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  CARLO  ERANCONI.    135 

hand  to  strike  the  child,  aimed  a  blow  at  her  head, 
which  stunned  her  for  a  moment,  and  quickly  seizing 
Nanina  I  hurried  down  stairs,  and  ran  along  the 
streets,  until  feeling  safe  from  pursuit,  I  sat  down, 
and  placing  my  sister  beside  me,  comforted  and  pacified 
her  alarm,  promising  never  to  allow  her  to  return  to 
Madame.  She  then  told  me  how  often  she  had  been 
beaten,  and  that  Madame  had  always  threatened  to 
make  me  go  without  supper  if  she  ever  told  me  how 
she  was  ill-treated.  Thus  the  intrepid  little  creature 
had  patiently  endured  all,  rather  than  that  I  should 
lose  a  meal.  "  I  could  not  let  you  starve,  Carlo,  mio," 
she  said,  "  you  who  worked  so  hard  for  me."  How 
could  I  help  loving  this  sister  ?  how  ever  reward  her 
for  such  devotion  ? 

The  evening  had  now  closed  in ;  a  keen  wind  was 
blowing  from  the  north,  and  to  us,  with  our  Italian 
temperament,  the  suffering  occasioned  by  the  cold  was 
extreme.  Hitherto  we  had  known  nothing  of  personal 
hardship,  we  had  been  sheltered  in  a  warm  room,  had 
slept  on  dry  straw,  and  though  our  food  had  been 
grudgingly  given  and  often  in  scanty  portions,  yet 
we  had  never  known  what  actual  hunger  was  ;  now, 
we  were  houseless,  supperless,  friendless,  but  not 
hopeless ;   we  were   free,  and   in   this  lay  a  happiness 


136        THE    ADVENTURES    OE    CABLO    EBANCONI. 

that  we  could  neither  define  nor  comprehend.  I 
took  Nanina's  hands  in  mine,  chafed  them,  and 
wrapping  her  in  my  coat  drew  her  close  to  me, 
and  crept  under  the  slight  shelter  afforded  by  the 
doorway  of  a  shop.  Here,  with  Jacopo  crouched 
beside  her,  she  fell  asleep,  and  I  was  happier  when 
thus  watching  beside  her,  than  I  had  been  since  we 
entered  London ;  I  was  once  more  her  protector,  and 
I  would  not  have  exchanged  my  bleak  and  lonely 
post  for  the  softest  bed  in  London.  I  did  not  sleep, 
for  my  mind  was  busily  revolving  plans  for  the  future ; 
remembering  Pietro's  advice,  I  determined  to  quit 
London  with  the  early  dawn ;  I  thought  that  in  the 
country  we  might  find  kind  people,  who  would  give 
us  food  and  perhaps  money.  Having  thus  resolved, 
I  waited  patiently  until  the  morning  began  to  break, 
Avhen,  awakening  Nanina,  I  told  her  my  intention ; 
she  eagerly  caught  at  the  idea,  for  a  vague  fear  of 
remaining  near  Madame  still  occupied  her  mind.  The 
streets  were  already  alive  with  carts  and  foot  passen- 
gers, and  we  walked  on  through  long  interminable 
streets  ;  Nanina,  who  had  rarely  left  the  one  room  we 
had  inhabited,  was  equally  amazed  and  delighted. 
The  shops  were  opened  one  by  one,  and  she  gazed 
in  at  the  large  windows,  on  all  the  beautiful  things 


THE  ADYENTUEES  OP  CAELO  EEANCONI.    137 

displayed,  with  childish  curiosity.  I  had,  fortunately, 
about  a  shilling  in  my  pocket,  the  proceeds  of  the 
previous  day's  campaign,  and  with  part  of  this  I 
bought  two  rolls  and  a  cup  of  warm  coffee  from  a 
man  at  the  corner  of  the  street.  Jacopo  came  in  for 
his  share,  and  thus  refreshed  we  resumed  our  walk. 
In  about  an  hour's  time,  the  long  rows  of  tall  houses 
gave  place  to  detached  villas  with  gardens  before  them, 
and  by-and-by  these  became  less  frequent,  and  then 
ceased  entirely. 

We  were  once  more  in  the  country ;  our  spirits 
revived  under  its  influence,  and  we  involuntarily 
quickened  our  pace.  Hitherto  we  had  kept  along  the 
high  road,  but  I  now  deemed  it  advisable  to  quit  the 
beaten .  track,  and  we  turned  into  a  little  lane  which 
seemed  to  lead  towards  a  village  at  some  distance. 
We  wandered  on  more  and  more  slowly,  for  we  had 
come  many  miles,  and  evening  was  now  drawing  near. 
We  soon  approached  a  large  farm,  whose  well-filled 
court-yard  and  homestead  bespoke  true  English  com- 
fort ;  before  the  house  was  a  pretty  little  garden,  where 
a  few  bright  crocuses  and  snow-drops  already  peeped 
abo-»-c  the  ground,  and  in  a  little  porch  sat  a  fat  and 
rosy  farmer's  wife,  beside  whom  a  little  girl,  about. 
Nanina's  age,  was  playing.  Attracted  by  the  sight  of 
12* 


138   THE  ADVENTURES  OF  CARLO  FRANCONI. 

the  child,  Nanina,  who  had  run  on  before  me,  stopped 
at  the  wicker-gate  and  called  me  to  come  quickly  to  see 
"la  bella  fanciullina."  I  feared  to  offend  the  good 
woman,  and  chid  Nanina  for  her  rudeness,  but  Jacopo, 
who  had  leaped  upon  the  gate,  began  to  play  off  his 
antics,  and  so  charmed  the  little  girl,  that  she  screamed 
with  delight,  and  clapping  her  hands,  began  to  talk 
to  us.  We  had  learned  a  few  English  words,  and 
quickly  made  acquaintance  with  her.  We  were 
invited  with  Jacopo  to  enter  the  court-yard,  and  soon 
a  number  of  the  servants,  with  the  master  and  mis- 
tress themselves,  were  gathered  round  us.  When  the 
monkey  had  played  off  all  his  tricks,  the  goodman 
turned  to  us,  and  asked  us  whither  we  were  going, 
and  where  we  intended  to  pass  the  night.  Finding 
that  we  did  not  know,  he  invited  us  to  go  in  with 
them,  and  share  their  supper.  After  eating  a  hearty 
supper,  I  ventured  to  ask,  as  a  further  boon,  that  we 
might  be  allowed  to  sleep  in  the  barn ;  this  was 
readily  granted,  and  a  promise  of  breakfast  before 
we  started  the  next  day,  sent  us  to  bed  with  happy, 
grateful  hearts.  It  had  been  a  prosperous  beginning 
to  our  travels,  and  we  set  forth  on  the  following 
morning  with  renewed  hope. 

I  cannot  tell  of  all  our  adventures.     At  times  we 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  CARLO  FRANCONI.   13v 

met  with  rough  unkindness ;  at  some  houses  the  dog- 
was  set  upon  us,  and  often  we  were  compelled  to  lie 
down  under  the  hedges  and  shelter  ourselves  from  the 
biting  blast,  as  best  we  could ;  at  other  times  we  were 
treated  kindly,  and  many  were  the  acts  of  generosity 
we  met  with  even  amongst  the  poorest  classes.  Spring 
came  at  last,  and  summer  brought  us  compan;tive 
comfort.  Our  little  purse  grew  heavier  and  heavier, 
for  we  never  willingly  drew  from  its  store,  but  con- 
tented ourselves  with  the  food  that  was  given  us  in 
charity ;  and  when  this  failed  we  frequently  suffered 
actual  hunger,  rather  than  take  from  our  treasure. 
Alas !  alas  !  I  did  not  know  that  by  this  course,  I  vras 
laying  the  foundation  of  a  future  misery  which  I  would 
have  given  every  farthing  of  that  hoarded  money,  nay, 
every  drop  of  my  heart's  blood,  to  have  averted.  My 
mind  recalls  but  little  of  the  time  that  followed ;  —  the 
events  of  that  summer  and  autumn  rest  dimly  in  my 
memory ;  my  thoughts  revert  to  one  period  marked 
by  such  sorrow  as  I  had  never  before  known;  all 
other  things  seem  trivial,  and  I  hasten  on  to  the 
following  winter. 

The  season  was  unusually  severe  even  for  England, 
and  our  sufferings  were  intense ;  whilst  I  tried,  and 
often,  as  I  thought,  successfully,  to  shield  Nanina  from 


140   THE  ADVENTURES  OF  CAELO  FEANCONI. 

the  keen  frosty  air,  I  saw  not,  I  kneAV  not,  tlie  canker 
that  was  secretly  undermining  her  constitution.  I  did 
not  even  guess  that  such  things  were,  or  that  death 
could  touch  that  lovely  creature.  I  saw  that  she  grew 
less  able  to  walk ;  I  heard  her  cough  through  those 
long  weary  nights  ;  I  felt  her  hot  burning  hands,  and 
wiped  from  her  fair  forehead  the  moisture  that  gathered 
there ;  yet  stUl  I  dreamed  not  she  must  die.  Nanina, 
my  beloved !  how  gladly  would  I  then  have  died  for 
you !  Yet  no  ;  the  gentle,  timid  girl,  rests  in  her  quiet 
grave,  safe  from  the  blasts  of  chilling  wind,  free  from 
all  care ;  and  I  was  even  then  content  to  live  alone, 
since  she  was  spared  all  further  sorrow. 

One  afternoon,  soon  after  Christmas-day,  Nanina, 
who  had  never  before  complained,  sat  down  on  a 
stone,  by  the  roadside,  and  told  me  she  could  gp  nn 
further ;  her  sunken  cheeks  were  bright  with  a  hectic 
bloom ;  her  eyes  shone  with  unnatural  lustre,  and 
unused  as  I  was  to  illness,  I  thought  she  did  but 
jest.  I  took  her  hand,  and  begging  her  not  to  give 
up  so  soon,  pointed  to  a  house  at  a  little  distance, 
to  which  Ave  were  directing  our  steps.  She  rose  and 
tottered  on,  leaning  more  and  more  heavily  on  my 
arm,  until  with  a  faint  sigh  she  fell  on  the  ground. 
"  Carlo,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot  move ;  let  me  lie  here 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  CARLO  FKANCONI.    141 

and  rest ;  by-and-by  I  will  try  again.  Ob,  let  ma 
rest !  "  I  was  now  alarmed,  and  covering  ber  witb 
my  coat,  I  ran  on  to  tbe  large  bouse  I  bad  pointed 
out  to  ber.  Emboldened  by  my  terror  for  Nanina  I 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  tbe  lady  of  tbe  house 
fortunately  passed  through  the  ball  at  that  moment, 
and  bearing  tbe  earnest  tones  of  my  voice  camt 
forward  ;  my  tale  was  soon  told  ;  she  instantlj 
offered  to  go  with  me  to  Nanina,  and  giving  ordei> 
to  tbe  servants  to  attend  vis,  avc  hastened  to  the 
spot  where  my  dear  sister  lay.  She  was  quickl) 
carried  to  tbe  house,  and  there  my  poor  fading 
flower  was  tended  witb  a  kindness  that  God  will, 
I  trust,  reward.  My  prayers  are  all  I  have  to  give 
in  return  for  it ;  but  surely  they  are  heard  in  Heaven, 
when  offered  so  fervently  as  mine  are,  night  and 
morning,  for  our  benefactress.  Nanina  never  rose 
from  the  bed  on  w^bich  they  laid  ber.  Beautiful  as 
an  angel,  she  won  all  hearts  by  her  sweetness  and 
patience.  All,  but  myself,  saw  that  her  hours  were 
numbered.  I  alone  watched  and  hoped  with  confi- 
dence to  see  the  fever  leave  ber :  daily  she  failed ; 
but  pain  had  left  her.  She  called  me  to  ber  one 
morning,  and  said,  "  Carlo,  I  wonder  what  death  is. 
Sometimes  I  think,  as  I  lie  awake  in  tbe  night,   that 


142        THE    ADVENTUHES    OF    CARLO    FRA.NCONI. 

perhaps  I  am  dying."  I  looked  at  her ;  and  the  truth 
thus  simply  put  hefore  me,  flashed  upon  my  mind  with 
a  conviction  that  its  dread  fulfilment  was  at  hand.  I 
covered  my  face,  and  sobbed  convulsively.  She  went 
on :  "  Carlo,  you  must  not  cry :  it  is  not  hard  to  die  ; 
it  is  no  pain  like  that  I  had  before  I  came  to  bed ;  all 
is  so  quiet,  it  is  so  sweet  to  look  thus  into  your  face  ; 
I  shall  not  leave  you  long,  and  jou  will  spare  me  to  go 
to  our  mother  and  the  Virgin,  and  I  shall  pray  for  you, 
Carlo,  and  still  be  with  you,  and  you  will  come  to  me 
in  Heaven ;  now  stoop  down  close  to  me,  and  let  me 
feel  your  face,  for  it  is  getting  dark,  and  I  cannot  see 
it.  Carlo,  dearest  Carlo,  I  am  so  happy !  now  let  me 
sleep."  She  lay  with  my  hand  clasped  in  hers,  and  I 
watched  beside  her,  thinking  that  she  slept ;  for  hours 
I  sat,  until  startled  by  the  change  in  her  countenance, 
and  the  cold  rigidity  of  her  hands,  I  tried  to  waken 
her.  Nanina  was  not  there,  —  her  spirit  had  fled,  and 
.before  me  lay  the  cold  remains  of  the  most  lovely  of 
God's  creatures ! 

I  do  not  know  what  followed  ;  all  is  darkness  ;  I  can 
recall  no  event ;  days,  weeks  passed  on  unheeded  by 
me ;  I  sat  in  the  small  churchyard  beside  that  grassy 
mound,  with  poor  Jacopo  by  my  side,  dead  to  all 
consciousness  of  things  beyond.      At  length  she  who 


THE  ADVENTUKES  OE  CARLO  FRANCONI.    143 

had  given  shelter  to  my  beloved  Nanina's  last  hours, 
called  me  to  her  room  ;  she  told  me  that  she  felt  for 
my  sorrow,  and  did  not  blame  it,  but  that  the  time 
was  come  when  I  must  rouse  myself;  that  I  could  not 
live  in  idleness,  for  God  had  given  me  strength  and 
understanding,  and  I  must  use  them ;  she  added,  that 
to  grieve  for  the  dead  with  such  absorbing  sorrow  was 
selfish ;  that  God  who  had  taken  Nanina  to  Himself, 
required  me  to  show  my  love  for  Him,  by  not 
indulging  in  useless  grief,  and  thus  murmuring  at 
His  decrees ;  that  I  must  strive  to  live,  so  that  when 
Death  came  to  me,  I  might  be  worthy  to  go,  where 
that  pure  and  gentle  spirit  had  already  gone  before 
me.  I  was  not  insensible  to  her  words;  I  felt  their 
truth,  and  resolved  to  rouse  myself.  My  kind  patroness 
had  already  laid  a  plan  for  my  future  life.  I  know 
not  how  it  was  that  such  an  interest  had  been 
awakened  in  her  heart ;  surely  it  was  for  Nanina's 
sake ;  I  was  her  brother,  and  as  such  became  the 
object  of  so  much  kindness. 

Mrs.  Morton  had  friends  in  London  whom  she 
interested  for  me,  and  by  their  means  I  was  admitted 
into  one  of  the  many  schools  in  which  instuction  is 
liberally  and  gratuitously  given  to  the  poor ;  here  I 
lived  a  year,  and  then  having  by  the  bounty  of  Mrs. 


ll'i   THE  ADVENTURES  OF  CARLO  FRANCONl. 

Morton  been  apprenticed  to  a  barometer-maker,  I 
learned  this  trade  thoroughly,  and  by  pursxiing  it 
steadily  for  a  few  years,  became  possessed  of  a  sum 
beyond  my  early  dreams  of  wealth.  Amidst  all  my 
trials,  I  had  never  lost  sight  of  the  object  for  which 
Nanina  and  I  had  toiled  and  suffered ;  my  heart  turned 
more  and  more  to  my  native  country,  and  when  at  last 
I  revealed  to  Mrs..  Morton  my  strong  desire  to  return 
to  Campiano,  she  met  it  with  her  usual  kindness; 
encouraged  me  to  put  my  plan  in  execution,  and 
added  to  my  store  so  generously,  that  I  was  p^  ced 
beyond  the  reach  of  poverty. 

Before  I  set  off  on  my  return  to  Italy,  I  visited 
Nanina's  grave,  and  prayed  that  her  spirit  might 
accompany  me  on  my  homeward  journey,  and  share 
in  that  return;  thus  cheered  by  the  consciousness  of 
her  presence  with  me,  I  might  be  less  oppressed  by 
the  loneliness  of  that  journey  which  we  had  so  often 
in  fancy  performed  together.  I  revisited  many  of  the 
places  in  France  which  I  had  seen  with  Nanina,  and 
arrived  at  length  at  Campiano.  Pietro  Dossi  was 
still  alive,  and  I  felt  that,  in  my  reunion  with  him, 
something  was  left  me  to  live  for;  I  bought  a  small 
farm,  and  taking  the  old  man  to  my  home,  I  had  the 


THE  ABVENTUKES  OF  CARLO  FKANCONI.   145 

comfort  of  rendering  his  last  days  happy.  This  source 
of  interest  had  roused  me  from  the  melancholy  which 
had  settled  on  my  soul,  and  when  Pietro  urged  me 
to  marry,  I  listened  at  first  impatiently,  then  by 
degrees  with  interest,  and  finally,  as  the  idea  took 
a  more  definite  form  by  my  increasing  admiration 
for  Maria  Donelli,  an  old  playfellow  and  friend 
of  Nanina's  childhood,  I  yielded  an  unhesitating 
assent  to  his  wishes,  and  took  my  bride  home  in 
time  to  aid  me  in  fulfilling  the  last  duties  to  our 
good  old  friend. 

Years  have  rolled  on ;  around  my  hearth  are  many 
little  beings,  in  whose  childish  joys  my  youth  is 
renewed ;  amongst  them  is  one,  dearer  to  me  in  my 
secret  heart  than  all  beside  —  another  Nanina;  in  her 
lovely  features  and  infantine  grace  I  see  my  sister  live 
again.  Maria,  my  gentle  wife,  is  sitting  beside  me  as 
I  write,  wondering  at  the  deep  emotions  that  have  been 
roused  as  I  have  recalled  my  past  life  :  she  loves  me, 
and  I  am  blest  in  her  affection. 

At  the  request  of  my  kind  friend  and  benefactress,  I 

have   written   this   sketch  of  my   life.     She   says   that 

from    my   tale    many    may    learn    to    regard    the    poor 

Italian  boys  who   travel   through   the   world,  without 

13 


146        THE    ADTENTUKES    OF    CAKLO    FKANCONt. 

home  and  without  friends,  with  more  consideration, 
and  cheer  them  in  their  lonely  wanderings  by  a 
kind  word  or  act :  such  are  like  the  dew  that 
falls   on  the   thirsty  earth  to  blossom  like  the  rose. 


THE    BLESSING. 

BY    H.    H. 

Dark  is  the  sky  with  thunder-clouds, 

While  breathes  that  agt'd  one 
His  fervent  gratitude  to  Heaven 

Amid  the  mountains  lone, 
For  the  mercy  of  the  present  hour, 

And  for  the  mercies  shown 
To  him  and  his  continually, 

In  the  seasons  that  are  gone. 

His  little  grandson  calmly  views 

The  tempest  gathering  round ; 
For  though  the  words  cannot  be  heard, 

Yet,  in  their  whisper'd  sound, 
The  boy  a  heartfelt  safety  finds ; 

And  it  seems  holy  ground 
To  his  young  eye,  where  they  two  sit 

On  the  gray  rocky  mound. 


148  THE    BLESSING. 

Not  oft  in  crowded  scenes  of  life, 

When  the  richest  feasts  are  spread, 
Does  such  accepted  prayer  arise 

As  o'er  the  peasant's  bread, 
Who  at  the  close  of  every  day, 

Rests  a  toil-wearied  head, 
Soothed  by  a  hope  that  Heaven  remains. 

When  mortal  life  is  fled. 


SELF-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVE. 

9 

BY  MRS.    JAMES   WHITTLE. 

In  the  deep  bay-window  of  the  library  of  Oldcourt 
sat  two  girls  absorbed  in  honest  discourse  ;  the  varying 
expression  of  their  faces,  as  the  conversation  proceeded, 
showed  that  the  subject  which  occupied  them  was  one 
of  strong  and  peculiar  interest  to  both.  They  were 
beautiful,  but  their  beauty  differed  as  the  hues  of 
Spring  and  Autumn.  The  youngest  was  graceful  as 
Hebe  herself;  her  bright  hazel  eyes  sparkled  with 
gayety  or  melted  into  tenderness ;  now  quick  as  light- 
ning flashed  from  beneath  their  long  silken  lashes,  and 
then  overflowed  with  tears,  as  some  softer  emotion 
touched  her  heart ;  her  rich  auburn  hair  fell  in  wild 
beauty  over  her  snowy  neck,  and  her  form,  slender  as  a 
sylph's,  was  replete  with  grace;  —  formed  to  love  and 
to  be  loved,  she  seemed  too  bright  and  joyous  a 
creature  to  face  the  cures  and  troubles  of  this  world. 
The  countenance  of  the  other,  on  the  contrary,  was 
IS* 


150  SELF-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVli. 

remarkable  for  its  calm  serenity  ;  her  fair  high  forehead 
bespoke  a  powerful  intellect,  and  the  pensive  expres- 
sion of  her  clear  gray  eyes,  while  it  spoke  of  past 
suffering,  told  of  present  peace,  and  far  from  marring 
the  perfect  beauty  of  her  face,  gave  it  a  character  so 
pure,  so  heavenly,  that  unconsciously  a  reverence 
mingled  with  the  love  which  she  inspired. 

"Margaret,"  said  the  younger  girl,  "  I  wish  you  were 
as  happy  as  I  am ;  surely  you  cannot  love  my  brother 
as  I  love  Alfred,  or  you  would  not  to-night  look  so 
serious." 

"  If  it  is  a  proof  of  love  to  be  always  merry,"  said 
Margaret,  with  a  smile,  "  then,  indeed,  must  I  plead 
guilty  to  your  charge." 

"  No,  Margaret,  I  do  not  mean  exactly  that ;  but 
love  seems  to  me  so  absorbing  a  feeling,  that  it  should 
drive  all  care,  all  clouds,  away.  I  should  think  it 
high  treason  to  my  love  for  Alfred,"  she  added,  with 
a  blush,  "to  be  sad  to-night." 

"  I  am  not  sad,  Emily ;  thoughtful  I  cannot  but  be 
on  the  eve  of  such  a  day." 

A  shade  of  disappointment  crossed  Emily's  face,  as 
she  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  Margaret !  I  thought  that  you 
loved  Edward  Avith  your  whole  heart." 

"  Do    you   doubt    it  ?      Do    you   not   know    that    I 


SELF-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOTE.  151 

have  loved  your  brother  for  years,  and  that  to-morrow 
I  am  to  become  his  wife  ?  Could  I  marry  him  unless 
I  loved  him  ?  " 

"  No,  dearest !  I  could  never  doubt  you,  who  are  the 
soul  of  truth  and  goodness  ;  but  your  present  feelings 
are  so  strangely  different  from  my  own.  To-morrow  I 
too,  shall  become  a  wife ;  but  the  thought  which 
brings  only  rapture  to  me,  makes  you  grave  and  full 
of  care." 

"  I  am  older  .than  you,  my  dear  Emily,  and,  there- 
fore, less  sanguine.  I  have,  however,  no  fears  for  the 
future  that  interfere  with  my  present  peace  of  mind  ; 
in  Edward's  noble  character,  sweet  temper,  and  firm 
religious  principles,  I  shall  find  a  secure  anchorage  for 
my  happiness.  I  love  him,  and  ti'ust  him  implicitly ; 
and  yet  I  cannot  take  this  important  step  without  some 
anxiety.  When  I  think  how  high  Edward's  standard 
is,  and  that  he  has  chosen  me  to  be  the  friend  and 
companion  of  his  life,  I  tremble  lest  I  may  fail 
him." 

"  Fail  him !  Oh,  Margaret !  can  you  believe  it 
possible  that  your  love  should  ever  change  ?  " 

"  No !  not  while  life  and  reason  last ;  but  there 
must  be  a  higher,  sterner  principle  than  even  love 
itself,  to  guide  us  safely  through  the  dangers  of  this 


152  SELF-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVE. 

life.  Impulse  is  at  best  an  uncertain  pilot ;  and  love, 
without  reason,  often  leads  to  misery." 

"Love  —  such  love  as  I  feel  for  Alfred  —  can  never 
mislead.  I  love  him  better  than  myself,  better  than 
the  whole  world  beside ;  to  live  for  him,  to  die  for  him, 
is  all  I  ask.  With  him  every  joy  will  be  doubled; 
nay,  pain  and  care  themselves  will  lose  their  bitterness 
when  endured  for  him.  Such  love  as  this  fills  the 
heart,  to  the  exclusion  of  every  doubt,  of  every  fear." 

Tears  rolled  down  Margaret's  cheeks  as  she  gazed 
on  the  enthusiastic  girl ;  for  she  knew  that  time  must 
dispel  her  dream,  as  care  and  trouble  are  the  portion 
of  all,  and  sorrow  too  often  visits  us  through  the  beings 
we  love  best.  Drawing  the  fair  girl  close  to  her,  she 
imprinted  a  long  and  fervent  kiss  upon  her  brow,  and 
whispered  a  prayer  that  it  might  be  long  ere  the 
brightness  of  that  spirit  should  be  dimmed  by  sorrow. 

The  following  morning  dawned  in  perfect  beauty ; 
the  sunshine  streaming  through  the  deep-set  windows 
awakened  all  to  the  business  of  the  day.  Oldcourt 
had  never  before  witnessed  such  a  scene  —  the  whole 
neighborhood  was  astir  at  early  dawn ;  trains  of 
villagers  flocked  from  all  parts,  eager  to  be  present  at 
the  important  ceremony,  and  to  join  their  voices  to 
the  prayers  and  blessings  that  were  showered  on  the 


SELF-LOVE    AND    TEUE    LOVE.  153 

young  people   whose   weddings   were    that  day   to   be 
celebrated. 

The  noble  domain  of  Oldcourt,  and  the  large  estates 
thereto  belonging,  had  for  many  centuries  been  in  the 
possession  of  one  family,  who  had  transmitted  their 
rich  acres,  together  with  a  fair  unsullied  name,  from 
generation  to  generation.  Simple  and  unostentatious 
in  their  habits,  upright  and  liberal  in  their  dealings, 
the  Mortons  were  respected  by  their  aristocratic 
neighbors,  revered  by  their  equals,  and  idolized  by 
their  tenantry  and  dependants.  Marmaduke  Morton, 
the  present  head  of  the  family,  was  a  fine  specimen  of 
an  English  country  gentleman ;  his  noble  countenance 
and  demeanor  bespoke  that  independence  of  character 
which  is  found  peculiarly  amongst  the  class  to  which 
he  belonged ;  and  while  his  courteous  manners  won 
the  love  of  all,  no  one  had  ever  dared  to  take  a  liberty 
with  him,  or  infringe  the  bounds  of  intimacy  he  pre- 
scribed. He  had  two  children;  a  son,  in  whom  his 
hopes  centered ;  and  a  daughter,  whose  gay,  volatile 
nature,  while  it  shed  sunshine  through  the  house,  yet 
caused  her  parents  many  an  anxious  hour.  Emily 
had  been  from  infancy  the  petted  darling  of  the 
family ;  her  sparkling  vivacity,  graceful  figure,  and 
beaming    countenance,    rendered    her    so    fascinating. 


154  SELF-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVE. 

that  her  faults  were  unheeded ;  she  took  the  heart 
by  storm,  and  if  reason  would  at  times  have  whispered 
blame,  she  disarmed  it  by  an  ingenuous  confession  of 
lier  folly,  or  by  the  playfulness  with  which  she  parried 
all  attempts  at  remonstrance.  Her  brother  Edward 
was  the  idol  of  her  heart;  thoughtless  and  giddy 
as  she  was,  she  had  sense  to  perceive,  and  a  heart 
to  feel,  the  beauty  of  his  character.  Edward  was 
worthy  her  affection;  trained  under  the  careful  eye 
of  his  parents,  his  education  had  been  eminently 
calculated  to  fit  him  for  his  future  position,  as  one 
of  the  wealthy  landholders  of  England.  His  father 
had  early  taught  him  to  regard  wealth  as  one  of 
"  the  talents "  committed  to  man  by  God  himself. 
He  pointed  out  to  him  the  duties  and  responsibilities 
which  the  possession  of  such  an  inheritance  as  his 
involved;  taught  him  to  respect  the  rights  of  all  his 
fellow-men ;  and  while  he  inculcated  virtue  by  good 
and  noble  precepts,  by  his  own  example,  more  potent 
far,  he  won  the  heart  of  his  son  to  love  it  for  itself. 
Edward  inherited  his  mother's  gentle  nature,  and  to 
her  he  was  indebted  not  only  for  the  softer  graces  of 
his  character,  but  for  a  reverence  for  holy  things, 
which,  imbibed  in  childhood,  had  in  after  years 
matured   into    deep   religious    feeling.     Yet   must   we 


SELF-LOVE    AND    IKUE    LOVE.  155 

confess  that  this  gentleness  often  degenerated  into 
indecision,  and  led  him  at  times  to  acts  unsanctioned 
by  his  better  judgment. 

Within  a  mile  of  Oldcourt,  nestled  amidst  the  hills, 
lay  a  beautiful  old  manor-house,  called  the  Grange ;  a 
fine  avenue  of  chestnut  trees  led  to  the  house,  which 
looked  the  abode  of  peace  and  happiness.  The  large 
mullion  windows  were  twined  with  the  most  luxuriant 
climbing  plants ;  the  deep  porch,  embosomed  in  roses 
and  myrtles,  opened  into  a  spacious  hall,  the  walls  of 
which  were  ornamented  with  antlers,  whips,  horns,  and 
other  implements  of  the  chase,  without  any  pretension 
or  show ;  and  there  was  throughout  the  house  an  air 
of  refinement  and  elegance  which  none  could  mistake. 
Many  might  have  called  the  old  house  dull,  but  none 
who  had  ever  enjoyed  its  boundless  hospitality,  or 
breathed  its  atmosphere  of  tranquil  happiness,  would 
have  uttered  such  treason.  In  this  peaceful  spot  had 
dwelt  for  many  years  a  family  of  the  name  of  Grahame ; 
in  its  happiest  days  five  daughters  and  one  son  had 
gladdened  the  hearts  of  their  parents ;  but  death  had 
been  busy  amongst  them  ;  four  girls  had  followed  each 
other  in  quick  succession  to  the  grave,  and  Margaret 
and  her  brother  Alfred  alone  remained  to  cheer  their 
aged  father ;  their  mother,  a  delicate  fragile  being,  had 


156  SELF-LOVE    AND    TBUE    LOVE. 

sunk  beneath  the  weight  of  her  afflictions,  and  now 
slept  beside  her  children  in  the  quiet  churchyard. 
On  Margaret  these  sorrows  had  fallen  with  peculiar 
severity ;  in  her  sisters  she  had  lost  the  sweet  com- 
panions of  her  childhood,  and  the  friends  of  her  youth ; 
she  beheld  them,  one  by  one,  sinking  to  the  grave, 
with  calm  fortitude,  but  the  final  blow  given  by  her 
mother's  death  seemed  to  stun  her.  In  the  first 
moments  of  her  grief,  she  had  sunk  into  a  state  of 
dejection,  from  which  nothing  could  rouse  her;  but  as 
soon  as  the  last  rites  were  performed,  Margaret  awoke 
from  her  sorrow,  and  in  the  efforts  she  made  for  those 
she  loved,  she  found  a  peace  which  the  world  cannot 
give :  none  knew,  however,  that  her  calm,  unselfish 
conduct,  concealed  a  sad  and  weary  spirit  —  none  knew, 
but  one  beloved  friend ;  to  him  she  had  long  confided 
her  most  secret  feelings,  and  in  his  devoted  love  had 
found  the  sweetest  consolation  earth  could  afford. 
Edward  Morton  had  loved  her  since  they  had  first 
played  together  as  children,  and  time  had  ripened 
these  youthful  feelings  into  a  firm  and  enduring 
attachment.  Margaret  had  yielded  a  slow  consent 
to  listen  to  his  vows  of  love ;  sorrow  had  left  an 
indelible  impression  on  her  character  ;  she  viewed 
lif«,    if  not   gloomily,    yet   earnestly ;    to    perform   its 


SELF-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVE.  157 

duties,  to  bear,  and  to  suffer  submissively,  seemed 
all  that  she  now  looked  for ;  it  was  therefore  long 
before  Edward  could  induce  her  to  seek  in  his  affection 
a  new  source  of  hope  and  comfort.  "  No,  Edward !  " 
she  had  replied  to  his  oft-repeated  entreaties,  "  I  am 
not  able  to  be  to  you  all  that  a  wife  should  be ;  seek 
not  to  darken  your  own  bright  future,  by  taking  to 
your  home  so  sad  a  heart  as  mine."  Edward's  love 
was  too  sincere,  and  founded  on  too  accurate  a 
knowledge  of  her  excellences,  to  be  influenced  by 
Margaret's  distrust  of  herself;  he  waited  patiently, 
and  saw  with  joy  the  veil  gradually  dispelled  that 
overshadowed  her  noble  spirit. 

A  circumstance  soon  occurred  that  tended  to  hasten 
their  union.  Mr.  Grahame's  pecuniary  affairs  had 
become  embarrassed  for  a  time,  owing  to  the  unex- 
pected failure  of  his  banker,  in  whose  hands  he  had 
placed  a  large  sum,  preparatory  to  its  investment  in 
an  advantageous  speculation ;  but  the  retrenchments 
rendered  necessary  by  this  loss,  were  regarded  as 
trifling  evils  where  so  much  real  sorrow  existed.  On 
Alfred's  prospects,  however,  this  event  exercised  an 
important  influence;  he  had  passed  through  college 
with  honor,  and  had  just  returned  home,  uncertain 
what  path  in  life  to  choose,  when  this  misfortune 
14 


158  SELF-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVE. 

happened.  It  incited  him  to  immediate  action,  and 
stimulated  him  to  secure  an  independence  by  the 
pursuit  of  an  honorable  profession.  The  law  was  his 
choice ;  his  talents  were  great,  and  the  excellence  of 
his  connections  promised  him  a  shorter  probation  as  a 
briefless  barrister,  than  is  the  lot  of  most  young  men. 
Alfred  Grahame  was  by  nature  sanguine  and  ardent, 
perceiving  no  evil  until  it  was  forced  upon  him  in  its 
stern  reality,  thinking  all  men  true,  until  compelled 
oy  their  acts  to  acknowledge  them  otherwise ;  he  was 
the  very  reverse  of  his  sister ;  life  to  him  was  all 
brightness ;  sorrow,  though  acutely  felt  for  the  time, 
glanced  ofi"  his  gay  spirit,  as  arrows-  from  the  polished 
steel;  to  live  and  to  enjoy  were  synonymous  with  him, 
out  sorrow  has  its  own  blessed  task  to  perform,  and 
fails  not,  sooner  or  later,  to  find  its  way  to  all  hearts. 
Alfred  had  been  settled  in  London  several  years,  and 
had  risen  high  in  his  profession.  His  handsome  person 
and  refined  manners,  united  to  his  brilliant  powers  of 
conversation  and  sparkling  wit,  rendered  him  a  favorite 
wherever  he  went,  and  admitted  him  into  the  best 
circles.  Society  was  his  element ;  in  the  conflict  of 
intellectual  warfare,  in  the  strife  of  gay  repartee,  in 
the  sallies  of  sarcasm  and  wit,  his  soul  delighted; 
the  flattered   and   courted   favorite  of  all,  there  wa? 


SELF-LOVE    AND    TEITE    LOYE.  159 

reason  to  fear  that  he  might  become  vain  and  selfish, 
when  after  an  absence  of  many  months  he  returned  to 
the  Grange. 

The  intimacy  that  subsisted  between  the  Mortons 
and  the  Grahames  had  been  rather  increased  than 
diminished  by  the  events  recorded  above.  Sorrow 
and  distress  had  awakened  all  the  best  feelings  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morton,  and  what  had  been  at  first 
but  a  mere  acquaintance  between  the  two  families, 
had,  in  adversity,  ripened  into  a  warm  friendship. 
Alfred  had  spent  but  little  time  under  his  father's 
roof,  since  he  first  quitted  it  for  school,  and  during 
the  last  two  summers,  his  vacation  had  been  spent  in 
travelling  ;  so  that  his  visits  to  the  Grange  had  been 
limited  to  a  few  days ;  it  was  not  surprising,  therefore, 
that  he  and  Emily  Morton  had  not  met  for  several 
years ;  he  remembered  her  as  the  p'etted  plaything  of 
her  father's  house,  he  found  her  a  lovely  Avoman,  such 
an  one  as  in  his  dreams  he  had  pictured  to  himself,  the 
heroine  of  his  life's  romance.  There  was  so  much  in- 
their  characters  mutually  to  attract,  that  it  was  matter 
of  little  surprise  when  it  was  reported  that  Alfred 
Grahame  was  the  accepted  lover  of  the  fair  Emily. 
Visions  of  a  more  splendid  alliance  for  this  darling 
child,  might   have  visited   her   father's   heart,    but  in 


160  SELF-LOVE    AND    TKUE    LOVE. 

the  unimpeachable  honor  of  his  family,  and  in  the 
talents  and  rising  fame  of  Alfred,  he  found  ample 
compensation  for  the  want  of  rank  and  fortune. 
Emily  loved  him  with  a  passionate  devotion  that, 
in  Alfred's  eyes,  heightened  every  charm ;  she 
exercised  over  him  the  most  unbounded  sway ;  it 
was  her  delight  to  make  him  feel  and  glory  in  the 
fetters  she  had  cast  around  him,  and  to  lead  him 
a  willing  captive  to  her  caprices.  Alfred  pleaded 
for  a  speedy  union,  urging  his  want  of  all  domestic 
ties,  and  loneliness,  when  absent  from  his  beloved 
Emily.  Edward  Morton,  too,  emboldened  by  the 
successful  issue  of  Alfred's  suit,  pressed  his  own  so 
earnestly,  that  Margaret  consented  that  the  same 
day  should  witness  the  marriage  of  the  two  brothers 
and   sisters. 

Our  digression  has  been  long  but  not  unnecessary, 
since  it  enables  us  to  recognize  friends  in  the  party 
now  assembled  round  the  altar  in  the  village  church 
of  Oldcourt ;  the  wedding  arrangements  have  been 
made  in  accordance  with  the  simple  taste  of  the  two 
families,  the  ceremony  is  performed  in  the  quiet  little 
church,  in  the  midst  of  a  numerous  assembly  of  the 
tenantry  and  villagers  ;  no  procession  of  gay  equipages, 
no    retinue    of     servants,    no    splendors    attend    the 


SELF-LOYE    AND    TRUE    LOVE.  161 

important  c;vent ;  all  that  can  gratify  the  heart  or 
please  the  fancy  has  been  thought  of,  but  cold 
formality  finds  no  place  on  such  a  day ;  the  cere- 
mony is  regarded  by  all  parties  as  a  solemn  religious 
rite,  not  to  be  profaned  by  any  worldly  pomp.  The 
church  stands  in  the  park ;  the  path  which  conducts 
to  it  winds  through  beds  of  sweet  flowers  and  wild 
tangled  shrubberies,  until  it  enters  the  open  park, 
where,  overshadowed  by  ancient  oaks  and  other 
forest  trees,  beneath  which  herds  of  deer  graze 
unmolested,  it  terminates  in  an  avenue  of  lime  trees 
which  conducts  to  the  little  gate  of  the  churchyard ; 
the  picturesque  tower  of  the  church,  partially  covered 
with  ivy,  forms  a  pretty  object  at  the  end  of  this  vista. 
Along  this  path  the  villagers  have  ranged  themselves, 
to  see  their  beloved  benefactors  pass ;  the  ground  is 
strewed  with  flowers,  and  many  a  murmured  blessing 
breaks  the  silence  of  the  scene.  The  ceremony  is 
ended,  the  irrevocable  vows  are  uttered,  and  in  the 
hearts  of  all  there  reigns  a  deep  and  holy  joy,  that 
shines  forth  on  the  countenances  though  the  tongue 
utters  no  sound.  And  now  the  procession  is  seen 
quitting  the  church,  dispensing  with  the  carriages  as 
needless  appendages ;  the  party  is  returning,  and,  as 
they  proceed,  the  villagers  fall  into  their  train,  forming 
14* 


162  SEIii'-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVE. 

a  long  line,  until  they  reach  the  house,  on  the  lawn  in 
front  of  which  tables  are  spread,  and  with  true  English 
hospitality  all  are  invited  to  partake  of  the  feast.  The 
family  retire  to  the  repast  prepared  for  them,  and  soon 
the  sound  of  rattling  wheels  announces  the  departure 
of  the  young  people ;  a  departure  undimmed  by  aught 
of  sorrow,  for  in  such  unions  there  is  cause  alone  for 
thankful  joy  even  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  are  left 
behind. 

Three  months  have  passed  away.  Let  us  peep  into  a 
pleasant  drawing-room  looking  into  Hyde  Park ; 
beside  the  open  window  Alfred  is  ensconced  in  a 
lounging  chair ;  at  his  feet,  on  a  pile  of  cushions,  her 
arms  resting  on  his  knee,  and  with  eyes  gazing  up 
to  him  with  unutterable  love,  Emily  is  kneeling ; 
lovelier  than  ever,  radiant  with  happiness,  she  looks 
more  like  an  angel  than  a  mortal :  at  least  so  Alfred 
seems  to  think,  for,  parting  the  luxuriant  ringlets  on 
her  fair  brow,  he  suddenly  exclaims  — 

"  Excellent  wretch !  Perdition  catch  my  soul, 
But  I  do  love  thee !  and  when  I  love  thee  not, 
Chaos  is  come  again." 

"  Love  me  not,  Alfred  ?  The  thought  has  madness 
in  it;"  and  tears  filled  her  eyes. 


SELF-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVE.  163 

"  Foolisli  child,"  said  he,  kissing  her  fervently,  "  I 
did  but  speak  that  which  is  impossible  ;  the  world 
were  in  truth,  a  chaos  without  thee,  my  heart's  joy  !  " 

"Yet,  Alfred,  she  to  whom  those  words  were 
addressed,  found  cause  to  rue  the  day  that  she  had 
listened  to  the  voice  that  uttered  them:  'men  are 
deceivers  ever,'  —  so  runs  the  old  song." 

"  Men  may  deceive,  but  never  where  they  love." 

"  And  thou  dost  love  me,"  said  she,  with  an  arch 
smile,  "  to  have  and  to  hold,  for  better,  for  worse, 
love,  and  honor,  and  cherish  —  those  were  the  words, 
Alfred  —  till  death  do  us  part?" 

"Ay,  Emily,  till  death  do  us  part!  Now  let  us 
go  into  the  Park:  the  air  is  cooler,  and  a  saunter 
beneath  the  trees  will  refresh  us." 

"  Trees,  said  Emily,  contemptuously,  where  shall  we 
find  them  ?  Heigho  !  for  the  green  sward  and  the 
old  oaks  of  dear  Oldcourt !  London  is  suffocating  in 
this  hot  weather." 

"London  versus    Oldcourt,  with   me,"  said  Alfred, 

gayly. 

"  Oh !  a  desert  or  a  dungeon  were  Heaven  with 
thee,  beloved  as  thou  art,"  said  Emily,  twining  her 
arms  round  him  in  sportive  fondness ;  "  so  come 
into  the  Park,  and  I  will  swear  the  grass  is  greener, 


164  SELF-LOYE    AND    TRUE    LOYE. 

the    trees    finer,    the    air    purer    than    in    any    other 
spot." 

And    what    were    Edward    and    Margaret    doing? 
They  had    agreed    to    take  up  their  residence   at  the 
Grange;    Margaret    could    not   resolve    to   leave    her 
father,  nor  would  they  either  of  them  consent  to  the 
desire   of    Mr.    and    Mrs.    Morton,   that   they   should 
take   possession    of     Oldcourt,    while    they    sought   a 
home  more  suited  to  their  present  wants  and  wishes, 
near   their    children; — to  supplant  his    father    there, 
to  deprive   him  of   any  part    of  his  estates,  one    day 
sooner  than  death  would  compel  him  to  do,  was  an 
idea  not  to  be  harbored  for  a  moment.     The  Grange 
was   so   near   Oldcourt,   that  in  fixing  their  residence 
there,  Edward  would  still  be  able  to  help  and  advise 
with  his  father,  while  at  the  same  time  he  left  Mar- 
garet to  comfort  the  declining  days  of  her  remaining 
parent.     The   evening  was    closing   in,  and    Margaret 
was  sitting  beside  her  father's  chair,  having  read  him 
to  sleep  as  usual ;  she  remained  absorbed  in  thought ; 
her  sweet  face  had  lost  much  of  its  pensive  expression, 
and  a  feeling  of  deep  calm  happiness  seemed  to  per- 
vade her  whole  being.     There  were  eyes  resting  upon 
her,  as  she  thus  sate,  that  told  volumes  in  the  intensity 


SELF-LOVE    AND    rKIXE    LOVE,  l65 

of  tlieir  gaze  ;  she  raised  her  head  and  met  them ;  a 
bright  gleam  stole  over  her  countenance  as  she  said, 
"Ah,  Edward  !  are  you  there  ?  " 

"Yes,  Margaret,  I  have  been  sunning  myself  in 
your  quiet  happiness;  dearest,  may  I  not  believe  my 
prophecy  already  fulfilled  ?  Joy  and  peace  have  again 
taken  up  their  abode  in  your  breast,  and  I  —  I  am  the 
happy  cause." 

"  Yes,  Edward,  day  by  day  brings  me  fresh  sources 
of  contentment ;  could  I  dare  to  be  sad,  while  you 
are  beside  me  ?  Can  I  witness  your  goodness  to 
all  around  you,  your  active  beneficence,  and  not 
desire  to  be  like  you?  I  believed  that  my  heart 
was  with  the  dead,  but  you  have  taught  me  that 
for  every  being  there  is  a  sphere  of  usefulness  and 
duty.  You  have  roused  me  to  a  sense  of  new 
responsibilities,  and  in  accepting  them,  I  find  new 
life,  new  joy  springing  in  my  heart,  all  this  I 
owe  to  you,  dear  Edward ! " 

"And  what  do  I  not  owe  to  you?  You  are  my 
counsellor,  my  better  self,  my  resource  in  all 
difficulties." 

"  May  it  ever  be  thus ;  thus  mutually  dependant, 
may  we  never  fail  each  other.  Will  you  walk  to 
Oldcourt  ?     I  have  sadly  neglected  my  school   of  late. 


166  SELF-LOVE    AND    TEXJE    LOVE. 

and  want  to"  speak  to  Mrs.  Bond  about  some  wor!   ; 
will  you  come  ?  " 

Ours  can  be  but  glimpses  into  the  lives  of  those 
whose  history  we  attempt  to  sketch.  Again  we  visit 
Emily's  home.  Is  all  there  as  bright  as  when  last  we 
saw  her  kneeling  beside  her  husband  ?  Alas,  it  ia 
not  so !  A  demon  has  insensibly  crept  into  the 
charmed  circle,  and  is  despoiling  its  beauty. 

"Emily,  why  will  you  not  go  with  me  to  Lady 
Bilton's  this  evening?"  said  Alfred,  laying  down  his 
book  ;  "  you  know  how  I  like  to  have  you  with  me, 
how  I  delight  to  see  you  admired,  as  you  are  wherever 
you  go." 

"  I  am  tired,  I  cannot  go,"  was  the  only  reply. 
"  Nay,  darling,  if  I  ask  you  to  oblige  me  you  will 
go;  time  was,"  he  added,  incautiously,  "that  you 
thought  only  of  pleasing  me,  nothing  that  I  could 
wish  seemed  irksome  to  you,  but  now,"  —  and  he 
sighed. 

"Alfred,"  she  said,  fixing  her  keen  eye  on  him; 
"  time  was  when  I  was  all  you  needed,  all  you 
desired;  when  my  love  sufficed  you,  and  in  my 
society  you  found  all  that  made  existence  sweet,  but 
now,  —  and  she  paused  with  an  abruptness  that 
betrayed  a  jealous,  wounded  spirit. 


SELF-LOVE    AND    TKUE    LOVE.  167 

"  Now,  you  would  say,  I  need   other   excitement." 

"No,  Alfred,  now  I  would  say  you  love  me  no 
longer ! "  and  she  buried  her  face  in  the  cushion  of 
the  couch  on  which  she  was  reclining. 

"Emily,"  he  exclaimed;  "I  love  you,  passionately 
love  you ;  I  would  sacrifice  life,  and  all  I  value  most, 
to  secure  your  happiness ;  but  I  fail  in  every  thing  ; 
you  deny  me  the  pleasure  of  feeling  that  I  succeed,  in 
this,  the  first  desire  of  my  heart.  I  see  you  restless, 
and  often,  forgive  the  word,  wilful.  Love  accepts  no 
enforced  sacrifices,  and  I  shall  not  ask  you  to  oblige 
me,  if  my  requests  are  always  to  be  met  in  this 
spirit;"  so  saying,  he  quitted  the  room,  and  quickly 
returned,  dressed  for  the  evening. 

"  Oh !  Alfred,  you  are  not  going  without  me,"  she 
said,  peevishly,  raising  herself  on  the  sofa  ;  "  how 
cruel  you  are  !  " 

"  No,  Emily,  I  am  not  cruel ;  but  if  you  choose 
your  part,  I  must  take  mine  ;  I  can  no  longer 
exclude  myself  from  the  society  of  my  friends,  as  I 
have  hitherto  done,  in  accordance  with  your  wishes ; 
neither  will  I  force  you  unwillingly  into  society." 
He  bent  down,  kissed  her,  and  went  away. 

"  Poor  Emily !  it  was  the  first  time  Alfred  had 
<hown  a   determination   to   follow  his  own   judgment 


168  SEXF-LOVE    AND    IKUE    LOVE. 

rather  than  her  caprices ;  hitherto  she  had  led 
him  whither  she  would,  but  the  time  was  come 
when  the  force  of  habit  had  begun  to  make  itself 
felt ;  he  had  lived  too  much  in  excitement,  and 
Emily's  power  to  fascinate  him  was  already  failing. 
Had  she  known  that  neither  wit  nor  talent,  beauty 
nor  grace,  can  avail  a  wife  in  the  attempt  to  rivet 
the  chains  which  she  has  thrown  round  her  lover, 
she  might  still  have  preserved  his  love  and  theii 
mutual  happiness ;  but  alas,  for  her !  a  creature  of 
impulse,  she  knew  not  that  her  love,  to  be  the  pure 
ennobling  principle  of  life,  must  be  founded  on  self- 
conquest  ;  that  self  must  be  subdued,  and  the  tyrant 
temper  overcome,  ere  it  can  rule  with  its  best  and 
holiest  sway ;  that  love,  to  its  perfect  work,  must  be 
first  gentle  and  patient,  then  firm  and  courageous, 
holding  as  its  highest  aim,  the  well-being  of  its 
object ;  indifferent  to  all  that  interferes  with  this, 
and  ready,  at  every  call,  to  sacrifice  itself  to  ensure 
the  happiness  of  the  one  beloved.  Such  was  not 
Emily's  love ;  she  would  have  died  to  save  Alfred 
one  pang ;  she  lived  but  in  his  presence,  drooping  in 
his  absence  like  a  flower  deprived  of  sunshine  and 
air ;  she  idolized  him,  worshipped  the  ground  he 
walked   upon,   but    she    could   not  yield    to   him   one 


SELF-LOVE    AND    XKUE    LOVE.  169 

single  caprice,  or  for  his  sake  control  one  petulant 
word.  Poor  Emily !  she  now  hid  her  burning  face 
in  the  sofa  cushions,  and  with  the  feeling  of  desertion, 
sobbed  herself  to  sleep.  Such  scenes  were  now,  alas  ! 
too  frequent  ;  Alfred  had  truly  loved  Emily,  and 
would  have  been  easily  won  by  her  to  become  a 
domestic  character,  had  she  possessed  the-  true  key 
to  his  heart  and  mind ;  but  she  continually  wounded 
his  self-love  by  reproaches,  which  he  felt  to  be  unjust, 
and  resented  in  anger.  Reconciliations  took  place, 
amidst  tears  and  protestations  of  unchanged  and 
unchanging  affection ;  but  the  wounds  thus  inflicted 
are  never  healed ;  they  bleed  inwardly,  and  burst  out 
afresh  on  the  slightest  suspicion  of  offence. 

At  the  Grange,  on  the  contrary,  all  was  peace. 
Margaret's  disposition  to  sadness  had  gradually  given 
place  to  a  cheerful,  healthy  tone  of  mind ;  and  as  she 
bent  over  the  cradle  of  her  darling  child,  if  tears  stole 
into  her  eyes,  they  were  tears  of  grateful  joy.  One 
thing  alone  startled  her  at  times  from  her  tranquillity ; 
she  saw  that  in  spite  of  Edward's  great  virtues,  and 
strong  religious  feelings,  he  needed  strength  of  pur- 
pose, and  steadiness  in  the  pursuit  of  what  he  knew 
to  be  right.  Many  would  have  recognized  in  this, 
only  one  of  those  faults  that,  leaning  to  virtue's  side, 
15 


170  SELF-LOVE    AND    TKUE    LOVE, 

are  too  easily  overlooked  and  pardoned ;  but  not  so 
did  Margaret  view  this  weakness  in  her  husband's 
character ;  she  saw  the  dangers  to  which  it  exposed 
him,  and,  with  a  wisdom  that  love  alone  could  have 
inspired,  she  gently  warned  him  against  them. 

"  I  shall  not  go  to  Embleton  to-day,  Margaret,"  he 
said  one  morning. 

"  Why  not  ?  I  thought  that  you  had  appointed  to 
meet  Sir  John  Gascoigne  there ;  your  father  seemed  to 
think  delay  might  bring  further  trouble  on  the  poor 
Ash  tons ;  surely  you  will  go,  dearest." 

"  One  day  can  make  but  little  difference,  I  think ; 
I  shall  be  sure  to  meet  Gascoigne  at  the  cricket 
match  to-morrow  ;  I  had  every  intention  of  going 
this  morning,  but  Frank  Ardley  is  just  come  from 
Oxford,  and  he  wants  me  to  go  to  Hensley  to  give 
him  my  opinion  of  a  horse  he  wishes  to  pur- 
chase." 

"  I  am  sorry  it  has  happened  so  unfortunately ;  you 
know  best  whether  in  this  case  delay  is  permissible, 
but  surely  appointments  on  business  should  be  kept, 
Edward,  even  at  the  cost  of  disappointing  Mr.  Ardley." 

"  Why,  Margaret,  Ardley  is  such  a  good-natured 
fellow,  that  I  do  not  like  to  refuse  him." 

"  I  thought  he  was  no  favorite  of  yours,  Edward ; 


SELF-LOYE    A.ND    TKUE    XOVE.  171 

I  have  often  heard  you  blame  his  extravagance  and 
dissipation." 

"  True,  my  love,  I  have  not  much  dependence  on 
his  principles,  but  he  has  a  kind  heart,  and  that 
covers  a  multitude  of  sins.  Have  you  any  commands 
at  Hensley?     We  shall  be  home  to  dinner,  dearest." 

Edward  knew  that  he  was  wrong ;  and  hastened 
to  make  a  speedy  retreat,  lest  Margaret's  arguments 
might  divert  him  from  his  purpose  ;  but  as  he  drove 
along,  his  conscience  smote  him :  it  was  however  too 
late  to  retract.  The  horse  was  bought,  and  the  two 
acquaintances  were  preparing  to  return,  when  they 
met  a  friend  of  Ardley's  who  persuaded  them  to 
adjourn  to  the  hotel,  where  a  party  of  Oxonians  was 
assembled;  dinner  was  served,  and  "  i<  was  impossihle'''' 
to  refuse  their  urgent  entreaties  to  remain :  Edward  was 
uneasy ;  he  knew  that  Margaret  would  wait  for  them, 
and  perhaps  grow  anxious ;  but  as  he  had  never  yet 
learned  the  important  art  of  saying  "  No,"  he  yielded 
It  was  late  ere  they  reached  the  Grange  at  night. 

Margaret  had  indeed  watched  anxiously  for  her 
husband's  return  ;  during  his  absence  Mr.  Morton 
had  called,  and  he  expressed  the  greatest  surprise 
and  indignation  on  learning  that  his  son  was  not 
gone    to   Embleton.     He   entreated  Margaret  to   urge 


172  SELF-LOYE    AND    TKUE    LOVE. 

him  on  his  return  to  lose  not  a  moment  in  executing 
the  commission  he  had  entrusted  to  him,  adding,  "  By 
this  delay  Edward  has  not  only  placed  in  jeopardy 
the  welfare  of  an  honest  and  respectahle  family,  but 
he  has  caused  his  father,  whose  word  has  hitherto  been 
honored  by  all  men,  to  forfeit  a  solemn  promise ;  let 
Edward  look  well  to  this  matter,  for  Marmaduke 
Morton  cannot  brook  dishonor."  Hour  after  hour 
passed ;  dinner  had  been  announced,  but  Margaret 
could  not  eat ;  surely  he  would  soon  return ;  the  old 
turret  clock  struck  ten,  eleven,  still  he  came  not ; 
midnight  was  long  passed  when  Margaret's  ears, 
rendered  keen  by  intense  listening,  detected  the 
sound  of  approaching  wheels.  "  There  he  is  at 
length!"  said  she,  and  she  rose  to  meet  him;  but 
before  she  reached  the  outer  door  a  gentleman  pre- 
sented himself,  who  in  extreme  agitation  apologized 
for  the  unseasonable  intrusion,  and  asked  if  Mr. 
Morton  were  at  home.  On  Margaret's  replying  that 
he  was  not,  but  that  she  expected  him  every  moment, 
the  stranger  exclaimed:  ''It  will  be  too  late!  My 
poor  wife ! "  Margaret,  affected  by  his  genuine  grief, 
invited  him  into  the  library ;  he  tottered  to  a  chair, 
and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  said,  "  Forgive 
me,  madam !  it  is  a  cruel  blow ;  my  wealth  I  could 


SELF-XOVE    AND    TEUE    LOYE.  -173 

have  parted  Avith ;  I  have  with  unshaken  trust  laid 
my  children  in  the  grave,  for  death  is  God's  own 
messenger ;  but  disgrace,  dishonor,  ruin  —  oh,  it  is 
too  much !  "  and  the  unhappy  man  burst  into  an 
agony  of  tears. 

"Calm  yourself,"  said  Margaret;  "I  believe  I  see 
my  husband's  friend,  Mr.  Ashton ;  Mr.  Morton  will 
be  here  ere  long,  and  all  will  be  right ;  he  will  do 
all  he  can  to  aid  you." 

Her  kind  words  and  kinder  tones  in  some  degree 
reassured  Mr.  Ashton,  and  he  went  on  to  say,  "  If 
before  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  certain  sums  are  not 
forthcoming,  I  shall  be  dragged  to  prison ;  my  credit, 
my  good  name  will  be  gone,  and  I  shall  be  a  ruined 
man  ;  of  this  money  your  excellent  father-in-law 
offered  to  advance  a  part,  if  Sir  John  Gascoigne 
would  guarantee  the  remainder ;  his  verbal  promise 
I  held  as  secure  as  any  legal  deed,  and  failed  to 
procure  a  written  paper  from  him ;  this  evening  I 
found  to  my  dismay  that  without  such  a  document 
Sir  John  refused  to  fulfil  his  part  of  the  contract; 
to-morrow  morning  is  the  latest  moment  that  I  can 
hope  to  keep  my  creditors  amused  by  promises,  and 
a  prison  will  be  my  only  portion !  " 

Margaret  now  saw  at  a  glance  all  the  distress  that 
15* 


174  SELP-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVE. 

fidward's  delay  had  occasioned ;  to  his  care  this  paper 
had  been  entrusted,  with  the  injunction  that  he  should 
see  Sir  John  and  negotiate  the  business  for  Robert 
Ashton,  who  had  been  suddenly  thrown  into  pecuniary 
embarrassments  by  the  failure  of  an  extensive  mercan- 
tile speculation,  in  which  he  had  been  incautiously 
engaged.  Edward's  dismay  was  great,  when,  on  his 
return  home,  an  hour  afterwards,  he  found  Mr.  Ashton 
sitting  with  his  wife,  and  learned  from  them,  that  his 
weakness  of  purpose  had  nearly  betrayed  him  into 
being  the  cause  of  his  friend's  ruin.  He  lost  no 
time  in  repairing  the  evil ;  he  was  with  Sir  Johrl  by 
early  dawn  ;  secured  his  written  engagement  to 
advance  the  needful  money,  and  waited  on  Ashton's 
principal  creditors.  On  his  return  home,  Margaret 
met  him  with  tearful  eyes,  but  she  uttered  no  word 
of  reproach  ;  Edward,  touched  by  her  forbearance, 
pressed  her  to  his  heart.  "  Oh,  Margaret,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  how  unworthy  I  am  of  such  a  friend, 
such  an  adviser !  would  that  I  could  become  more 
like  you,  more  firm,  more  true  to  my  own  heart ; 
but  weak  and  irresolute,  I  do  the  very  things  my 
soul  abhors ;  guide  me,  strengthen  me,  that  I  may 
be  more  worthy  of  you." 

"  Nay,   dearest  Edward,   do  not  speak   thus,"  said 


SELF-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVE.  175 

Margaret,  leaning  on  his  shoulder  and  looking  on 
him  with  admiring  love  ,  "  the  fault,  though  fatal  in 
its  consequences,  is  in  itself  but  trivial ;  and  surely," 
she  added,  smiling,  "  by  our  united  efforts,  we  shall 
succeed  in  routing  a  feeble  enemy." 

And  so  they  did ;  faithful  to  each  other  in  all  things, 
faithful  even  in  blame,  did  these  two  noble  beings  v.alk 
on  through  life,  aiding  and  strengthening  each  other's 
virtue. 

About  six  months  after  the  above  incident,  Alfred 
and  Emily  came  to  Oldcourt  to  spend  the  summer 
months.  The  lovely  girl  had  changed  into  the  pale 
§nd  listless  woman,  and  every  one  who  looked  at  her 
mourned  over  the  alteration.  Margaret  mourned  too, 
but  it  was  for  the  moral  change  she  detected  not  only 
in  Emily,  but  in  her  brother.  Emily's  countenance 
bore  the  traces,  even  in  its  sweetest  moments,  of  a 
settled  discontent,  while  a  fretful,  restless  expression 
marred  all  its  former  beauty.  She  had  now  two  lovely 
little  girls,  but  even  for  their  sake  she  scarcely  roused 
herself  to  exertion ;  even  to  their  winning  ways  and 
exquisite  grace  she  seemed  indifferent,  while  to  Alfred 
they  were  the  source  of  mbounded  joy  and  pride; 
he  lived  in  them,  and  see  aed  careless  of  all  beside. 
To    Margaret   this    appeared   as   unnatural    as   it  was 


176  SELF-LOTE    AND    TRUE    LOVE. 

distressing  ;  she  saw  that  Emily  shrank  from  th3 
delight  which  Alfred  felt  in  these  children,  and 
became  impatient  and  fretful  whenever  he  noticed 
them  in  her  presence,  as  if  she  were  jealous  of  the 
love  he  felt  for  them. 

One  fine  summer  morning,  Margaret  having  tempted 
her  sister  to  stroll  in  the  park,  they  found  themselves 
in  the  path  which  led  to  the  church,  and  by  which,  four 
years  since,  they  had  returned  to  Oldcourt,  two  happy 
brides.  Margaret  recalled  that  day  to  Emily's  remem- 
brance, adding,  how  diiferent  were  her  feelings  as  a 
wife  to  those  she  then  experienced. 

"  Difierent,  indeed  !  "  Emily  replied,  with  bitternes#: 
"  you  were  right,  Margaret,  to  fear  marriage  as  you 
did ;  oh !  how  cruelly  have  my  dreams  been  dispelled 
—  how  mad  and  foolish  it  is  to  think  that  love  can 
last ;  it  is  truly  our  unhappy  lot 

'to  make  idols, 


And  then  find  them  clay,' 

Alfred,  whom  I  believed  so  true,  so  kind,  so  devoted 
to  me,  see  him  now  —  he  scarcely  knows  if  I  am 
present  or  absent.  Oh,  Margaret,  my  heart  is  broken : 
would  that  I  could  lay  my  .ead  down  and  rest  in  that 
churchyard." 


SEIiF-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVE.  177 

"  Dearest  Emily,  do  not  say  so ;   you  have  far  tod* 
many  blessings  to  venture  on  such  a  wish ;  —  at  all 
times  wrong,  in  you  it  is  doubly  so." 

"  Ah !  you  do  not  know  all.  I  look  at  you  some- 
times with  wonder,  and,  I  am  afraid,  with  envy ;  you 
are  so  happy,  you  have  found  Edward  all  you  believed 
him." 

"  And  has  Alfred  been  false  to  you,  that  you  should 
envy  me  ? " 

"  Not  false,  perhaps ;  but  he  has  ceased  to  love  me, 
and  I  am  wretched." 

"  Alfred  does  not  appear  to  me  more  happy  than 
yourself,  and  yet  you  still  love  him." 

"  Love  him !  —  yes,  it  is  my  misery  still  to  idolize 
him ;  I  cannot  leave  him  out  of  my  sight  —  I  care 
for  no  earthly  thing  but  him." 

"But  your  children?" 

"  Oh  !  yes  —  of  course  I  love  them ;  but " —  She 
stopped,  and  tears  choked  her  voice. 

"But  what,  dearest?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  —  you  would  not  understand  me, 
and  would  only  blame  me." 

"  When  did  I  ever  blame  you  ?  Surely  you  can 
trust  me ;  I  desire  to  see  you  happy,  and  if  I  <^\iuk 
you  have  erred  from  want  of  experience,  I  will  strive 


17S  SELF-LOVE    AND    TEUE    LOTE. 

k)  set  you  right,  as  one  frail,  sinful  creature  should 
alone  correct  another,  in  the  spirit  of  true  love ;  speak 
freely  to  me,  my  dear  sister,  let  me  be  your  friend  and 
comforter." 

Emily,  unused  to  such  kind  and  reasonable 
treatment,  covered  her  face  and  burst  into  tears ; 
then  recovering  herself,  she  went  on  to  say,  "  If 
you  had  been  always  by  my  side,  I  should  have 
been  wiser  and  happier,  but  I  have  no  hope,  no 
comfort  now;  Alfred  will  never  love  me  again, 
and  the  world  is  all  dark  to  me." 

"  Are  you  sure  he  has  ever  left  off  loving  you  ? 
Alfred  is  not  one  to  change  lightly ;  what  has 
happened  to  make  you  think  him  less  loving  than 
formerly?  " 

"Cannot  you  see,"  rejoined  Emily,  pettishly  "how 
indifferent  and  careless  he  is  about  me?  he  never 
wants  me,  any  one's  society  is  preferable  to  mine ; 
he  leaves  me  alone  for  hours,  sits  in  his  room 
studying,  he  says,  while  I  am  solitary  and  deserted." 

"  This  is  so  unlike  Alfred ;  are  you  sure  you  have 
made  his  home  a  happy  one  ?  Have  you  always  been 
cheerful  and  considerate  of  his  wishes,  have  you  met 
him  with  smiles,  and  been  willing  at  times  to 
sacrifice  your  own  inclinations  to  gratify  his  ? " 


SELF-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVE.  179 

"  I  would  have  given  up  every  thing  to  him, 
Margaret,  but  he  told  me  he   wanted    no    sacrifices." 

"  If  you  made  him  feel  them  as  such,  no  wonder  he 
would  not  accept  them.  Love  does  but  half  its  work, 
if  it  cannot  succeed  in  making  all  sacrifices  appear 
as  nothing.  As  wives,  we  must  not  expect  to  receive 
the  same  outward  marks  of  devotion  that  were  yieldcv 
to  us  before  marriage ;  the  manner  of  evincing  afiec- 
tion  may,  nay,  it  must  change,  and  yet  the  feeling  can 
remain  unaltered.  Have  you  not  looked  for  too  much 
from  Alfred,  and  exacted  too  much  subservience  to 
your  wishes,  while  you  yielded  too  little  deference 
to  his?" 

Emily  colored  and  hesitated,  then  replied :  "  You 
may  be  right  to  a  certain  extent ;  but  Alfred  has 
thrown  me  off",  he  goes  his  own  way,  seeks  his  own 
amusements,  cares  only  for  the  children,  and  forgets 
my  existence  ;  he  is  always  in  society,  while  I  do  not 
care  for  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  let  him  see  too  clearly  your  dislike 
to  society,  forgetting,  Emily,  that  the  habits  of 
years'  standing  may  have  become  a  second  nature 
to  him." 

"Alfred  knew  that  I  hated  those  stupid  dinner- 
parties, and    yet   he    teased  me   to    go   with   him;    1 


180  SELF-LOVE    A?rD    TEUE    LOVE. 

only    wanted     htm,    while     he     found    my     company 
wearisome." 

"  Then  you  refused  to  accompany  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly ;  why  should  I  go,  when  I  have 
no  pleasuffe  in  such  things  ?  and  he  could  not  want 
me,  you  know,"  she  added  rather  doubtfully. 

"  Alfred  may  have  submitted  to  your  caprices, 
Emily ;  but  a  man  who  loves  his  wife,  as  he  loves 
you,  likes  to  have  her  always  with  him ;  even  in  a 
crowd  he  is  conscious  of  her  presence,  and  rejoices 
in  the  admiration  she  excites." 

"  I  care  for  no  admiration  but  that  of  my  husband," 
said  Emily,  coldly. 

"  But  you  may  care  whether  you  give  him  pleasure, 
or  selfishly  refuse  to  do  so.  Believe  me,  Emily,  a 
woman  not  only  contributes  to  her  husband's 
happiness  by  studying  his  wishes,  but  acquires 
influence  of  the  best  kind  —  an  influence,  for  the 
use  of  which  she  is  responsible  to  God." 

"  Do  you  think,  Margaret,  that  I  could  ever  gain 
such  an  influence  over  Alfred  ?  He  looks  upon  me 
as  a  spoiled  child,  and  treats  me  as  such." 

"  You  can  gain  it,  dearest  Emily,  if  you  earnestly 
desire  to  do  so ;  learn  to  be  patient,  endeavor  to  find 
out  what  your  husband   really  desires  ;    he   will   not 


SELF-LOVE    AND    TRUE    LOVE.  181 

lead  you  astray,  for  he  is  kind  and  generous,  and 
higli-principlcd.  Do  not  think  of  yourself  so  much ; 
think  more  of  him ;  and  you  will  find  the  happiness 
that  you  have  hitherto  sought  in  vain." 

"  Saying  this,  Margaret  kissed  her  sister,  and  left 
her  to  reflect  on  what  had  been  said ;  conscious  that, 
in  spite  of  her  waywardness,  Emily  had  too  much 
good  sense  not  to  perceive  and  act  upon  the  truths 
she  had  heard.  Faithful  to  her  brother  as  to  Emily, 
Margaret  pointed  out  to  him  the  rocks  on  which 
he  had  wrecked  his  own  and  his  wife's  happiness; 
and  long  before  they  quitted  Oldcourt,  she  saw  a 
better  understanding  established  between  them.  Nor 
were  lier  warnings  forgotton  on  their  return  to 
London.  Emily  was  amazed  to  find  that  Alfred 
sought  less,  than  before,  the  excitement  of  society, 
while  she  was  more  than  ever  ready  to  be  his  com- 
panion in  all  he  desired.  By  a  slight  mutual 
concession,  these  two  hearts  were  preserved  to  each 
other,  and  peace  and  joy  took  the  place  of  fretfulness 
and  misery.  Thus  may  it  ever  be  !  Warned  in  time, 
may  the  selfish  learn  that  safety  can  alone  be  found 
in  loving  others  better  than  ourselves ;  and  may 
love  become  in  all  hearts  an  active  principle  of  good, 
seeking  not  its  own,  but  the  happiness  of  others. 
16 


TO    M.    A.    G. 

I  KNOW  not  what  —  a  nameless  charm 

Invested  all  thy  motions ; 
And,  as  I  gazed  my  heart  grew  warm 

With  strange,  yet  sweet,  emotions. 

We  met  again ;  —  thy  gentle  touch 
Thrilled  all  my  latent  pulses; 

But,  lest  my  soul  should  hope  too  much) 
I  thought  of  Love's  repulses. 

We  met  again ;  I  watched  thine  eye ;  — 

It  ever  shunned  my  glances ; 
And  I  began  to  brood  and  sigh 

O'er  fortune's  fickle  chances. 

Thy  smiles  were  given  to  all  but  me ;  — 

To  all  but  me  thy  speeches ; 
How  flatt'ring  such  neglect  may  be, 

Experience  only  teaches ! 


TO    M.    A.    G.  183 

A  sickly  feeling  o'er  me  came; 

I  felt  my  spirit  dying; 
Thy  gentle  self  I  could  not  blame, 

So  blamed  my  fond  relying. 

We  met  again,  to  say  farewell ; 

But  when  I  spoke  of  parting, 
Regretful  tears  in  silence  fell. 

Thy  secret  love  imparting. 

What  fond  emotions  stirred  my  breast 

When  I  beheld  thy  sorrow ! 
Then  every  doubt  was  set  at  rest, 

And  brightly  dawned  the  morrow ! 

And  still  around  thee  hangs  the  charm 

That  drew  my  first  attention ; 
And  still  my  heart  as  fondly  warm, 

In  love  knows  no  declension. 


THE    WITHERED    ROSE. 
[fKOM     a     PASTOK's     RECOXrECTIONS.] 

It  is  now  between  thirty  and  forty  years  since  1 
entered  on  my  pastoral  office  in  the  quiet  neighborhood 
where  I  live.  When  I  first  undertook  its  duties  I  was 
young  and  energetic ;  and  though  I  feci  myself  to  be 
as  active  as  I  could  reasonably  expect  after  the  lapse 
of  so  many  years,  I  begin  to  think  myself  not  quite 
so  young  as  when  I  first  took  charge  of  my  flock. 
My  tastes  are  more  subdued.  I  no  longer  aspire 
after  bold,  wild  scenery,  but  become  every  day  more 
satisfied  with  the  tranquil  views  which  surround  me ; 
and  as  I  look  from  the  window  of  my  snug  parsonage, 
I  fancy  that  the  pleasant  fields,  sprinkled  with  their 
store  of  daisies,  are  fresher  and  greener  than  when 
first  I  saw  them ;  the  gurgling  brook,  across  whose 
waters  the  willow  here  and  there  casts  a  shadow, 
seems  to  make  sweeter  music  as  it  winds  its  way, 
than  it  used  when  first  I  heard  it.     The  very  sound 


THE    WITHERED    ROSE.  185 

of  the  mill,  which  formerly  disturbed  me,  has  now 
sach  a  lulling  effect,  that  I  should  feel  something 
was  wanted  to  my  repose  were  it  to  cease ;  and  each 
year  the  steeple  which  out-tops  the  trees  in  which 
the  church  is  embosomed,  becomes  a  dearer  object  to 
me.  How  often  have  I  seen  groups  on  the  Sabbath 
morning  leading  their  way  through  the  pleasant  green 
lanes  to  the  House  of  Prayer,  called  by  the  chimes 
of  its  bells ;  —  on  many  an  one  of  that  dear  flock 
whom  I  had  christened,  have  I  bestowed  the  nuptial 
benediction ;  and  over,  alas  !  not  a  few  of  those  I 
held  in  my  arms  at  the  baptismal  font,  I  have 
performed  the  last  rites.  Among  all  my  young 
parishioners,  there  was  not  one  that  I  loved  more 
than  Jessie  Williams  ;  it  was  not  for  her  beauty, 
remarkable  as  it  was ;  it  was  her  pleasant  and 
caressing  ways  and  her  sensitive  nature  which  made 
her  irresistible.  She  was  but  a  few  months  old 
when  I  christened  her,  and  she  had  already  lost  her 
father ;  and  this  dear  child  was  now  all  in  all  to  her 
poor  mother.  I  have  often  seen  her  when  an  infant 
lying  on  the  lap  of  the  widow,  whose  silent  tears  fell 
as  she  leant  over  her,  trying  to  trace  in  her  infantine 
features  a  resemblance  to  him  Avho  was  gone.  I  felt 
deeply  interested  in  the  early  sorrows  of  the  young 
16* 


186  THE    WITHERED    ROSE. 

widow,  and  in  the  piety  whidi  sustained  her  under 
them.  As  the  child  grew  apace,  her  affectionate 
disposition,  and  the  manner  in  which  she  attached 
herself  to  me,  made  me  love  her  so  dearly,  that  she 
became  almost  necessary  to  my  happiness.  She  was 
about  seven  years  old  when  I  was  slowly  recovering 
from  a  severe  fit  of  illness,  and  she  Avould  steal  softly 
to  my  bedside  every  morning  with  the  bunch  of  flowers 
which  she  had  collected,  and  with  the  little  basket  of 
strawberries  gathered  by  herself,  and  she  would  feed 
me  with  them  from  her  own  tiny  fingers.  She  was 
of  such  a  warm  and  confiding  nature,  that  she  was  the 
favorite  among  all  her  young  companions  ;  and  it 
was  even  remarked  of  her  that  she  never  lost  a 
friend  except  by  death  —  her  kindness  was  so 
unwavering,  and  her  constancy  so  secure.  No 
wonder  that  she  was  the  comfort  and  the  delight 
of  her  mother's  days ;  the  pride  with  which  she 
looked  at  her  was  but  natural,  for  she  was  indeed 
lovely ;  and  years,  as  they  sped  on,  stole  nothing 
from  the  innocence  and  warmth  of  her  heart.  One 
of  her  young  friends,  her  own  especial  friend,  was  to 
be  married,  and  Jessie  was  to  be  bridemaid,  and  the 
bride  entreated  to  have  her  home  to  spend  some 
time.     Jessie  longed  to  accept  the  invitation,  and  th« 


THE    WITHERED    HOSE.  18? 

young  girls  in  the  neighborhood  promised  to  be 
company  for  her  mother  during  her  absence ;  and 
she,  glad  to  see  her  darling  gratified,  gave  a  ready 
permission.      The    bridal-party  went  to   the    town    of 

,    and    it    so    happened    that    the    bridegroom's 

greatest  friend,  Captain  Danvers,  was  quartered 
here.  The  friends  were  delighted  to  meet,  and  the 
young  officer  was  soon  domesticated  in  his  house. 
He  was  a  great  acquisition  to  the  little  party,  for 
besides  being  remarkably  prepossessing  in  manners 
and  appearance,  he  was  skilled  in  the  accomplishments 
most  prized  in  society ;  and,  captivated  immediately 
by  Jessie's-  beauty,  he  made  himself  as  agreeable  as 
possible.  Ever  by  her  side,  he  could  look  at  or 
listen  to  nobody  but  her.  He  attended  her  to  all 
the  pleasantest  walks  in  the  neighborhood ;  he  sung 
for  her  beautiful  songs  of  his  own  composition  with 
the  most  exquisite  taste.  Jessie  was  enchanted,  and 
could  have  listened  for  ever.  Week  after  week  sped 
on,  intimacy  and  confidence  increasing  every  day. 
All  the  verses  which  he  wrote  were  repeated  to  her, 
and  copies  given ;  and  never  were  verses  more 
expressive  of  deep  affection  and  touching  tenderness. 
Jessie's  name  was  not  mentioned  in  the  effusions, 
but   her   heart    told   her   for  whom   they  were  meant. 


188  THE    WITHERED    ROSE. 

Once,  indeed,  the  name  did  escape,  and  the  betrayal 
produced  the  greatest  confusion  on  his  part  as  well 
as  on  hers ;  but  in  this  very  confusion  there  was 
so  much  meaning  and  sympathy  that  it  was  very 
delightful  to  her.  Sometimes  vague  expressions  of 
affection,  and  allusions  to  feelings  and  intentions, 
seemed  but  the  prelude  to  an  open  avowal  of  his 
attachment  and  his  wishes;  to  Jessie's  truthful  and 
confiding  disposition,  his  words,  his  looks,  and  his 
attentions  were  as  sure  a  pledge  of  affection  as  any 
verbal  declaration.  As  the  time  for  her  return  home 
drew  near,  he  became  sad  and  abstracted,  and  tears 
rose  to  Jessie's  eyes  when  the  moment  of  leave-taking 
came ;  and  then  he  spoke,  as  he  often  did,  of  their 
meeting  very,  very  soon,  for  he  had  got  her  permission 
to  visit  her  at  home. 

"  You  may  be  sure,"  he  added,  "  that  I  shall  not  be 
long  after  you ;  and  will  you  promise  me,  that  when 
you  see  me  wending  my  way  up  your  avenue  one  of 
these  days,  you  will  not  desire  the  servant  to  say  not 
at  home  7  " 

A  smile  and  a  blush  gave  Jessie's  answer,  and  he 
raised  the  fair  hand,  which  he  had  fondly  clasped,  and 
kissed  it  passionately.  Jessie  travelled  homewards, 
elated  by  love  and  trust.     As  she  threw  herself  into 


THE    WITHEKED    ROSE.  l89 

her  mother's  arms,  slie  felt  that  there  was  not  in  all 
the  wide  world  one  so  happy  as  herself.  ....  Long 
did  she  wait  for  that  promised  visit,  and  still  she  would 
saunter  to  the  window,  and  watch  as  far  as  eye  could 
reach  the  windings  of  the  road ;  and  often  has  her 
heart  jumped  to  her  lips,  as  she  fancied  that  she  could 
discern  in  the  horseman  who  approached,  the  air  and 
figure  of  him  for  whom  she  looked.  The  first  glow 
of  morning  light  and  the  last  of  departing  day  dis- 
covered the  poor  girl  watching  for  her -lover.  Thus 
weeks  and  weeks  passed  over,  and  then  doubts  arose ; 
he  might  have  never  loved,  as  she  had  thought ;  he 
might  have  forgotten.  But  ah  !  that  cannot  be  —  did 
he  not  write  those  lines  with  his  own  hand  and  his 
own  heart  —  and  is  he  not  good  and  true  ?  And  then 
she  would  read  over  and  over  again  the  passionate 
lines  which  he  had  penned  —  lines  so  fixed  in  her 
memory  that  she  needed  not  to  have  read  them,  but 
that  she  loved  to  see  the  very  words  that  he  had 
written,  as  if  they  could  ensure  his  constancy ;  and, 
reassured,  she  would  look  to  the  clear  blue  skies,  and 
think  that  the  blessing  of  Heaven  Avould  rest  upon 
love  pure  and  unalterable  as  theirs ;  but  months  went 
by,  and  still  he  did  not  come.  At  length,  she  heard 
by  mere  chance  that   the  regiment  Avas   under   orders 


190  THE    WITHEBED    EOSE. 

for  foreign  service ;  —  he  then  would  surely  come  to 
open  his  mind  before  the  seas  parted  them,  at  least 
to  take  leave  of  one  who  had  appeared  for  a  few  happy 
months  to  have  been  all  the  world  to  him.  He  came 
not ;  but  ere  long  was  on  his  way  to  a  distant  land. 
Poor  Jessie  strove  to  stifle  her  feelings,  but  she  could 
not  hide  them  from  her  mother,  from  whom  she  had 
no  secret.  They  soon  wrought  a  sad  change  in  her, 
which  even  a  casual  observer  could  not  but  perceive. 
Her  mother's  looks  constantly  followed  her,  for  her 
languid  air  and  dejected  countenance  awakened  most 
anxious  fears ;  for  my  part,  I  could  not  see  her  without 
the  most  melancholy  foreboding  that  we  were  not  to 
have  her  long.  There  seemed  a  sublimity  in  her 
shadowy  form  as  she  passed  along  the  aisle  of  our 
little  church,  as  if  she  were  no  longer  of  the  earth; 
and  the  tones  of  her  voice  were  so  sweet  and  touching, 
as  she  joined  in  the  psalmody,  that  I  thought  them 
already  fitted  for  mingling  with  a  celestial  choir ;  tears 
would  trickle  down  the  cheeks  of  her  young  com- 
panions as  she  sung.  I  felt  greatly  troubled  about 
her,  —  physicians  were  consulted.  Alas  !  they  cannot 
prescribe  for  disappointed  feelings !  They  could  only 
recommend  tonics ;  atid,  as  they  could  not  specify  any 
particular  ailment,  they  referred   her   case   to   general 


THE    WITHERED    BOSE.  191 

delicar.y,  and  pronounced  it  somewhat  precarious,  and 
requiring  great  care.  Every  month  that  went  was 
evidently  loosening  her  hold  of  life,  and  she  was 
gradually  fading  away.  Some  family  arrangements 
just  at  that  time,  required  my  presence  in  London, 
where  I  was  detained  for  a  few  weeks.  When  I 
returned,  I  was  shocked  to  see  how  much  worse 
Jessie  was  than  when  I  had  left  home.  She  was 
sadly  wasted.  Her  poor  mother  still  had  hopes;  for 
hope  is  the  last  thing  with  which  we  will  part,  "  albeit, 
though  that  hope  is  vain ;  "  and  at  times  when  I  have 
called  and  talked  mth  her,  I  have  been  persuaded  to 
hope,  though  there  was  nothing  to  justify  it.  Few 
have  not  experienced  the  delusion  so  often  described 
by  poets ;  and  Moore  has  spoken  the  feelings  of  many, 
when  he  says  of  those  who  were  under  similar  circum- 
stances with  ourselves  — 


"We  still  had  hope  —  for  hopes  will  stay 
After  the  sunset  of  delight ; 
So  like  the  star  that  ushers  day 
We  scarce  can  think  it  heralds  night ! ' 


However,  increasing  weakness  became  too  e'vident, 
and  the  dear  child  could  no  longer  take  her  seat  by 


192  THE    WITHERED    ROSE. 

the  open  window,  to  look  out  upon  the  green  fields 
and  woods ;  but  was  obliged  to  keep  entirely  to  bed. 
One  morning  a  message  was  brought  that  Mrs.  Will- 
iams was  anxious  that  I  should  go  over  as  soon  as 
possible,  for  that  Miss  Williams  was  much  worse, 
and  was  wishing  earnestly  to  see  me.  With  a  heavy 
heart  I  obeyed  the  summons.  As  I  went  on  my  way, 
fancy  conjured  up  the  scenes  in  which  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  s6e  Jessie  take  her  part ;  I  could 
picture  her  a  merry  little  sprite,  bounding  on  through 
the  paths  before  me,  filling  her  held-up  frock  with 
wild  flowers,  which  she  gathered  at  random  on  her 
way,  and  ever  and  anon  turning  to  look  back  at  me 
with  a  lightsome  laugh,  while  the  breeze  blew  her 
hair  about  her  sweet  face.  As  I  drew  near  the  porch 
before  the  door,  the  odor  of  the  roses  and  woodbine 
with  which  it  was  covered  brought  many  a  recollection. 
How  is  it  that  the  perfume  of  flowers,  so  evanescent 
in  itself,  is  so  powerful  in  recoiling  feelings  and 
awakening  the  memories  of  o'l-her  days  ?  How  often 
the  sweet  girl  welcomed  me  at  that  porch !  What 
afiectionate  looks  and  glad  tones  used  to  await  me 
there !  I  was  soon  by  the  bed  where  she  lay,  and 
by  which  her  disconsolate  mother  was  sitting.  She 
looked  at  me  with  a  sweet  smile,  but  none  of  us  could 


THE    WITHERED    ROSE.  193 

ftpeak  for  a  moment ;  she  then  said  a  word,  but  it  was 
eo  low  that  I  did  not  hear  it.  Her  mother,  to  whom 
it  was  addressed,  took  a  glass  which  held  some  flowers 
from  the  table  where  it  stood,  and  brought  it  to  her. 
With  a  weak  and  trembling  hand  she  took  a  rose 
from  among  them,  and  handing  it  to  me,  said,  "  It 
is  not  the  first  time."  "No  darling  —  no  darling  — 
it  is  not  indeed."  "  How  kind  you  are,  my  dear  sir, 
how  very,  very  kind.  I  perceive  how  sorry  you  are 
to  see  your  little  Jessie  lying  sick ;  but  I  sometimes 
think  that  I  may  recover.  You  are  used,  dear  sir, 
to  see  sick  people ;  do  you  think  I  may  recover  ?  I 
should  like  to  walk  along  the  green  fields,  and  among 
the  shady  trees,  as  I  used ;  and  to  hear  the  singing 
of  the  birds;  —  do  you  think  that  I  shall  ever?"  I 
could  not  speak,  but  I  pressed  the  dear  wasted  hand 
which  I  held.  "  But  I  have  things  to  say,"  resumed 
she,  after  a  moment's  silence :  "  what  I  have  upon  my 
mind,  before  you  pray  beside  me  —  what  I  feel  most 
of  all  —  is  my  own  dear  mother  —  I  should  like  to  stay 
by  her  side  —  but  you  will  say  all  to  comfort  her,  and 
you  will  often  sit  by  her,  and  talk  of  me,  I  have  very 
often  heard  you  say,  my  dear  sir,  that  you  thought  we 
should  know  our  friends  in  heaven ;  think  of  that,  dear 
mother  —  don't  cry  so  —  think  of  that,  dear  mother. 
17 


194  THE    -VVirHERED    KOSE. 

And  another  thing  that  I  would  ask  you  to  do  —  and 
that  is  all  —  I  would  ask  you,  my  dear  sir,  if  ever 
chance  should  throw  in  your  way  any  that  may  think 
that  they  have  done  me  wrong  —  that  may  think  that 
through  their  means  I  have  been  disappointed  in  any 
way  —  to  tell  them  I  had  no  anger  towards  them ; 
and  if  such  a  word  as  forgiveness  should  come  to  be 
mentioned,  say  that  I  forgave,  and  bid  them  not  to 
let  a  thought  of  me  disturb  their  peace."  A  tear 
trembled  on  her  eyelash  as  she  spoke,  but  she  soon 
looked  in  our  faces  with  a  smiling  countenance 
There  was  a  holy  calm  about  her,  as  she  joined  in 
our  devotions,  which  was  soothing  to  her  mother's 
feelings,  as  well  as  to  mine.  Towards  evening  she 
appeared  very  languid,  and  complained  of  fatigue,  but 
said  that  if  her  mother  rested  her  head  on  the  pillow 
beside  her,  she  thought  she  could  sleep.  I  thought 
she  had  fallen  into  a  sweet  sliimber  before  I  left  the 
house,  but  I  found,  on  sending  early  the  next  morning 
to  inquire  for  her,  that  it  had  been  her  long  last  sleep, 
so  easily  did  that  sweet  spirit  pass  away.  I  had  taken 
the  rose  that  she  had  given  me  from  my  bosom,  and 
placed  it  in  the  page  that  I  had  last  read  to  her,  in  my 
prayer-book,  and  I  felt  it  was  no  profanation ;  it  has 
remained   there   ever  since,   and  whenever  I  look  a* 


THE    WITHERED    KOSE.  195 

the  poor  faded  flower,  it  recalls  a  scene  whicli  I  can 
never  forget.  Though.  "  all  her  pleasant  things  are 
laid  waste,"  the  poor  mother  bears  her  affliction 
patiently,  and  takes  comfort  in  thinking  of  so  good 
a  child.  Nearly  two  years  after  Jessie's  death,  I 
saw  in  the  newspaper,  a  notice  of  Captain  Danvers's 
marriage  to  a  rich  heiress.  I  need  not  say  how  I 
felt.  I  opened  the  book  which  lay  beside  me,  and 
looked  at  the  poor  withered  rose. 


THE    MOUNTAIN    DAISY. 

O  FLOWEB  upon  the  mountain  top ! 

With,  tints  so  soft  and  rare, 
What  charm,  in  this  sweet  world  of  ours. 

Shall  we  to  thee  compare  ? 

Thou'rt  like  this  gentle  maiden's  cheek 

So  delicately  fair, 
Than  which  in  this  sweet  world  of  ours 

There's  naught  so  soft  or  rare. 

O  maiden  fair  and  delicate ! 

With  lowly  modest  mien. 
Among  the  lovely  things  of  earth, 

Can  aught  like  thee  be  seen? 

Is  not  the  lowly  mountain  flower 

A  fitting  type  of  thee. 
Blooming  unconscious  that  an  eye 

Looks  on  it  lovingly  ? 


CLEMENCE    ISAURE; 
OK,      THE      FLOKAI,      GAMES. 
A  HISTORICAL  TALB. 

It  was  a  cold  frosty  morning  in  November,  1478, 
two  knights,  mounted  on  noble  and  richly-caparisoned 
steeds,  advanced  rapidly  along  the  banks  of  the 
Garonne  towards  the  city  of  Toulouse.  At  some 
distance  from  the  gates  of  this  ancient  capital  of 
Languedoc,  they  approached  an  humble  dwelling, 
whose  outstretched  sign  proclaimed  the  important 
fact,  that  "  Here  Poirot  lodges  both  man  and  horse." 
The  youngest  of  the  travellers,  addressing  mine 
host,  who  had  hastened  to  his  open  door  on  hearing 
the  sound  of  horses'  feet,  inquired  of  him  which 
was  the  way  to  the  castle  of  the  Countess  of 
Toulouse. 

"You  have  not  far  to  go,  Sir  Knight,"  replied  the 
man,  pointing  towards  the  town ;  "  follow  the  course 
17* 


198  CLEMENCE    ISAUEE. 

of  the  river,  and  where  yon  dark  shadow  rests  so 
heavily,  you  will  find  the  castle.  But  may  I  not 
offer  you  some  refreshment,  noble  sirs  ? "  continued 
the  host. 

"  Not  now,"  replied  the  younger  stranger,  "  but 
I  thank  you  for  your  information ; "  and  dropping  a 
piece  of  money  into  his  hand,  he  galloped  on.  After 
a  moment  he  reigned  up  his  steed,  and  addressing  his 
companion :  "  Have  I  made  my  wishes  clearly  under- 
stood by  thee,  my  good  Raymond  ?  Thou  knowest 
how  my  honored  and  lamented  father,  the  Lord  of 
Nesle,  pledged  himself  before  his  death  to  the  Count 
of  Toulouse,  that  I  should  marry  his  daughter, 
Clemence  Isaure.  All  the  articles  of  the  contract 
have  been  drawn  out  between  them,  and  a  fine  of 
ten  thousand  golden  crowns  imposed  on  either  of 
the  parties  who  may  decline  fufilling  the  engage- 
ment. I  have  never  seen  my  betrothed,  and  truth 
to  say,  I  thought  of  nothing  less  than  coming  to 
claim  her  hand,  when  last  week,  I  received  through  the 
king's  courier  a  letter  from  the  countess,  acquainting 
me  that  her  health  was  failing  fast,  and  that  she 
dreaded  leaving  her  daughter  alone  in  the  world, 
and  therefore  requested  my  presence  at  her  castle, 
for  the  fulfilment  of  my  father's  engagement." 


CLEMENCE    ISAURE.  199 

"  The  heiress  of  the  house  of  Toulouse  must  be 
wealthy,  Sire  Amaury." 

"  Immensely  rich,  Raymxjnd." 

"  Is  she  young  and  pretty  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  that  is  what  I  am  somewhat  doubtful  about, 
Raymond ;  and  therefore  am  I  come  incognito,  to 
ascertain  for  myself,  whether  it  be  not  better  to  pay 
the  ten  thousand  golden  crowns  than  to  marry." 

"  I  have  heard,  far  and  near,  of  the  wit,  talents, 
and  learning  of  the  lady  Clemence." 

"  That  is  just  what  alarms  me,  Raymond ;  a  learned 
woman,  who  perhaps  understands  orthography !  Out ! 
How  tiresome  that  would  be,  Raymond !  Why,  I 
"would  as  soon  marry  my  preceptor  as  a  learned 
lady.  But  here  we  are  at  the  castle  gate.  Now, 
let  me  see  if  thou  dost  remember  thy  part." 

"  Listen,  my  lord. I  am  a  messenger  from  you, 

old  Richard,  your  trusty  attendant,  and  the  bearer  of 
a  letter  from  you  to  the  countess  as  well  as  a  gift 
to  her  noble  daughter.  So  far,  all  is  true,  but  now 
comes  the  fiction ;  for  you,  the  Sire  of  Nesle,  the 
most  amiable  and  distinguished  young  nobleman  at 
the  court  of  France,  are  to  be  my  squire  —  the  poor 
scion  of  an  honorable  family,  —  and  now  your  name 
is"— 


200  CLEMENCE    ISAUEE. 

"Gerard,"  said  Amaury,  smiling.  "Now,  sound 
the  horn." 

Raymond  having  obeyed,  the  porter  appeared ;  and, 
after  conveying  Raymond's  message  to  the  lady  of 
Toulouse,  quickly  returned  to  summon  the  travellers 
to  her  presence. 

"  Wliat  an  ancient  castle,  my  master ! "  whispered 
the  young  Marquis  de  Nesle  to  his  companion,  as  they 
followed  the  servant  through  a  long  suite  of  gloomy 
apartments.  How  sad  and  silent  it  is !  methinks 
that  science  breathes  in  every  corner  of  it.  I  lay 
a  bet  that  the  lady  Clemence  is  as  old  and  as  stiff 
as  these  portraits  of  her  ancestors." 

At  this  moment,  the  servant  who  preceded  them 
having  raised  a  tapestry-hanging,  they  found  them- 
selves at  the  entrance  of  a  vast  saloon,  at  the 
extreme  end  of  which  were  two  ladies ;  one  of  whom 
presented  the  very  image  just  portrayed  by  Amaury. 
She  was  seated  in  a  large  easy  chair,  and  on  a  low 
stool  at  her  feet  was  a  young  girl,  whose  rich  dark 
ringlets  fell  in  profusion  on  her  neck  and  shoulders  ; 
her  back  was  towards  the  door,  and  she  was  repeating 
aloud  some  poem,  to  which  the  elder  lady  listened 
with  the  deepest  attention.  The  strangers  were  no 
sooner   announced,   than   the    young   lady,    rising   up 


CLEMENCE    ISAUKE.  201 

hastily,  revealed  to  the  Sire  de  Nesle  a  countenance 
radiant  with  health  and  beauty." 

"  Be  welcome,"  she  said,  addressing  Raymond. 
"  Pray,  sir,  excuse  my  lady-mother  from  advancing 
to  greet  you."  And  then,  with  a  look  of  inexpres- 
sible sadness,  she  pointed  to  her  mother's  closed  and 
sightless  eyes. 

Raymond  bowed  with  profound  respect;  and 
drawing  from  beneath  his  cloak  a  Bible  superbly 
bound,  and  clasped  with  gold,  together  with  a 
parchment  sealed  with  green  wax,  whereon  were 
stamped  the  arms  of  the  noble  house  of  Nesle : 
"  Madam,"  said  he,  "  these  are  sent  by  my  lord 
and  master,  the  Sire  of  Nesle.  A  very  important 
affair  detains  him  unwillingly  for  a  few  days  at 
court." 

Amaury's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  lady  Clemence 
with  s>irprise  and  admiration. 

"  A  Bible,  a  printed  Bible ! "  exclaimed  Clemence, 
opening  the  book  and  placing  it  on  her  mother's  knees. 
"  Oh,  what  a  treasure  !  I  have  never  seen  one  of  this 
impression  before." 

"Is  it  very  readable,  my  daughter?"  inquired  the 
countess,  feeling  with  her  long  'vhite  fingers  the  pages 
of  the  book. 


202  CLEMENCE    ISAUEE. 

"  0 !  perfectly  so,  my  clear  mother ;  only  listen  a 
moment,"  and  her  eye  fell  on  the  following  passage :  — 
'  And  now,  if  ye  will  deal  kindly  and  truly  with  my 
master,  tell  me ;  and  if  not,  tell  me,  that  I  may  turn 
to  the  right  hand  or  to  the  left.'  "  It  is  the  passage 
of  Genesis,  where  Abraham's  servant  arrives  in  Meso- 
potamia, to  choose  a  wife  for  his  master,  Isaac,"  said 
Clemence,  addressing  her  mother. 

"  The  history  of  Abraham's  servant  is  my  own,  noble 
lady,"  rejoined  Raymond. 

Clemence  blushed  deeply. 

"  Your  allusion  to  this  history,  sir,  reminds  me  of 
my  neglect  in  not  offering  you  and  your  young 
companion  some  refreshment ; "  and  summoning  an 
attendant,  she  desired  that  the  evening  repast  might 
be  served  as  speedily  as  possible. 

"Clemence,"  said  the  countess,  "read  to  me  the 
Sire  de  Nesle's  epistle." 

While  breaking  the  seal,  her  daughter  observed  in 
a  low  voice,  "  You  know,  dear  mother,  the  only 
condition  on  which  I  would  consent  to  accept  the 
Sire  de  Nesle  for  my  lord  and  master." 

"There  is  a  fine,  my  child,"  said  the  countess. 

"  We  can  pay  it,  my  lady-mother." 

"But  there  is  a  promise  pledged,  child." 


GLEMENCE    ISAURE.  203 

"  There  is  also  a  Smif  la  Vue,  madam,  and  I  may 
not  perhaps  please  the  Sire  de  Nesle." 

"  Oh,  impossible  !  "  imprudently  exclaimed  the  pre- 
tended squire. 

Clemence  looked  at  him  with  so  noble  and  severe 
an  aspect,  that  the  aged  Rajmond  hastened  to  address 
her. 

"  Pardon  my  squire,  noble  lady  ;  he  is  the 
impoverished  scion  of  an  ancient  family,  and 
my  master  has  somewhat  spoiled  Gemrd  by  his 
kindness." 

"  Gerard !  "  repeated  the  lady  Clemence,  "  your 
name  is  Gerard,  sir  ? "  said  she,  addressing  Amaury 
with  an  air  of  modest  dignity. 

"It  is  impossible  to  deceive  you,  noble  damoiselle. 
I  am  the  Sire  de  Nesle ; "  for  before  the  candid  and 
inquiring  glance  of  Clemence  deception  seemed  uselesf;. 

The  aged  countess  rose  up  hastily. 

"The  Sire  de  Nesle  here  already?  Oh!  pardon 
my  emotion.  Sire,  but  the  desire  for  my  child's 
happiness  is  mingled  with  sorrow  at  the  thought  of 
losing  her  so  speedily." 

"  Behold  in  me,  madam,  the  most  respectful  of 
sons,"  said  the  Sire  de  Nesle,  bending  his  knee  to 
salute    the    countess's    hand.     Then    turning    towards 


204  CLEMENCE    ISATTKE. 

Clemence,  and  seeing  her  pale  and  silent,  he  added. 
"  Are  you  displeased  with  me  fair  lady  ? " 

"  Although  it  would  have  been  more  generous  of 
you,  Sire,  to  appear  at  first  in  your  own  character," 
replied  Clemence,  "  I  bear  you  no  ill-will ;  but  before 
we  pledge  ourselves" — 

"  Clemence  ! "  interrupted  her  mother  hastily. 

"  Pardon  me,  dear  mother,"  resumed  the  young 
girl,  with  a  trembling  voice,  "  Sire  de  Nesle,  my 
mother  has  me  only  in  the  world.  You  see  her 
misfortune.  I  alone  am  able  to  make  her  smile,  to 
shed  a  little  sunshine  on  her  darkened  life.  Promise 
me,  therefore,  here  on  this  Bible,  on  the  first  gift  I  have 
received  at  your  hand,  that  you  will  never  separate  me 
from  my  mother.  With  this  assurance,  I  am  willing 
to  accept  you  as  my  lord  and  master ;  to  be  your 
wife,  your  companion,  your  attendant,  if  needs  be." 

"  I  promise  it,"  said  Amaury,  as  deeply  moved  as 
the  Lady  Clemence  herself. 

"  Dear,  dear  child,"  said  the  countess,  pressing  her 
daughter  to  her  bosom,  "  God  has  been  merciful  in 
leaving  me  such  an  angel.  Sire  de  Nesle,  know 
what  a  treasure  you  are  receiving  from  me.  For 
the  sake  of  relieving  the  tedium  of  her  blind 
mother's     life,    she    has     devoted    herself    to    »tudy 


CLEMENCE    ISAUEE.  205 

during  the  joyous  spring-time  of  her  hfe.  She  has 
•passed  many  a  midnight  hour  in  searching  the  olden 
chronicles,  that  she  might  find  wherewith  to  amuse 
me  on  the  ensuing  day.  She  has  made  herself 
mistress  of  the  gay  science,  that  she  might  sing  to 
me,  at  twilight,  lays  of  love  and  glory.  Peace,  my 
daughter,  I  will  say  all.  She  has  studied  not  for 
fame,  not  even  for  the  mere  love  of  knowledge,  but 
for  her  mother's  sake.  Such  a  daughter  must  prove 
a  tender  wife,  a  virtuous  mother.  Sire  de  Nesle,  oh, 
love  her  well,  and  make  her  happy ! " 

Tears  rolled  down  the  aged  countess's  cheeks ;  nor 
could  Amaury  and  Raymond  listen,  without  being 
deeply  moved.  As  for  Clemence,  she  concealed  her 
emotion  beneath  a  smile,  and,  addressing  the  countess, 
said,  "  Leave  my  praises,  dearest  mother,  I  pray 
you,  to  less  -  interested  judges,  and  let  us  think  only 
of  these  noble  gentlemen,  who  honor  us  with  their 
company.  Perhaps  they  may  favor  us  with  some 
account  of  what  is  doing  at  court  in  Paris.  Tell  us 
somewhat,  I  pray  you,  concerning  this  wondrous  art 
of  printing,  and  whence  this  costly  Bible  was 
procured." 

"  My  father  purchased  it  from    Gutenberg  himself^ 
during  a  journey  he  made  to  Mentz,  in  1452.     John 
18 


206  CLEMENCE    ISAUKE. 

Gensfleiscli,  for  that  was  Ms  real  name,  had  just 
then  entered  into  partnership  with  Fust,  one  of 
whose  workmen,  Peter  Scheffer,  had  invented  cast 
metal  types  instead  of  those  rude  wooden  letters, 
strung  together  with  pack-thread,  which  had  been 
previously  used." 

"  They  have,  no  doubt,  raised  statues  to  Gutenberg 
and  Fust,"  said  Clemence. 

"So  far  from  it,  fair  lady,  that  Fust  had  a  narrow 
escape  of  being  burnt  to  death,"  replied  the  Sire  de 
Nesle. 

Both  the  ladies  made  exclamations  of  surprise. 
"  Yes,  truly,  for  so  it  was,  that  Fust  coming  to 
Paris  with  the  hope  of  selling  his  Bibles  there,  the 
copyists  were  so  enraged  at  his  offering  them  at  a 
lower  price  than  they  demanded  for  their  own  books, 
that  they  accused  him  of  magic ;  and,  by  my  faith,  he 
was  about  to  be  burnt,  when  the  king  took  him  under 
his  protection,  purchased  his  books,  and  gave  him  an 
asylum  in  his  palace." 

"  Well  done  of  Louis !  I  love  him  for  that ! " 
exclaimed  Clemence,  with  almost  childish  glee. 

At  this  moment,  supper  was  announced ;  and  after 
having  gracefully  fulfilled  the  duties  of  hospitality 
Clemence,  at  a  late    hour  of  the  evening,  announced 


CLEMENCE    ISAURE.  207 

to  the  travellers,  that  their  apartments  were  prepared ; 
so  bidding  a  courteous  good  night  to  the  ladies  of 
the  castle,  Amaury  and  his  companion  followed  the 
attendants,  who  preceded  them  with  torches  of 
blazing  resin. 

The  city  of  Toulouse  discoursed  joyously  concerning 
the  splendid  alliance  about  to  be  formed  by  the  last 
remaining  scion  of  the  noble  house  of  Toulouse ;  * 
and  even  the  cTged  countess  seemed  for  awhile  to 
forget  her  own  sorrows  in  the  approaching  happiness 
of  her  child.  Amaury  was  deeply  enamored  of  the 
lady  Clemence,  and  she  received  with  gentle  satis- 
faction the  many  proofs  of  his  tenderness  and 
devotion.  Sometimes,  however,  even  in  her  happiest 
moments,  a  shade  of  sadness  would  steal  across  her 
features,  clouding  for  a  while  the  bright  serenity  of 
her  countenance. 

It  was  the  eve  of  that  eventful  day  on  which  their 
marriage  contract  was  to  be  signed.  Clemence,  who 
had  often  expressed  her  peculiar  love  for  violets, 
found,    on    rising,    a   large    nosegay    of    her    favorite 

*  The  house   of  Nesle  was  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  noble, 
as  well  as  one  of  the  wealthiest  families  in  France. 


208  CLEMENCE    ISAXJKE. 

flowers  upon  her  toilet-table.  The  weather  being 
intensely  cold,  she  expressed  her  surprise  and  admi- 
ration at  so  unexpected  a  gift. 

"  And  how  much  more  would  my  dear  mistress  prize 
them,"  said  Susan,  her  foster-sister  and  attendant,  "  if 
she  knew  that  they  well  nigh  cost  the  Sire  de  Nesle 
his  life  this  morning." 

"Good  heavens!  what  do  you  mean?"  inquired 
Clemence,  turning  deadly  pale. 

"And  it  would  have  been  all  my  fault  too," 
continued  Susan.  "  Oh !  I  never  would  have  for- 
given myself.  Only  imagine,  my  dear  mistress,  that 
having  overheard  the  Sire  de  Nesle  say  yesterday 
that  he  would  gladly  give  a  pound  of  his  blood  for 
every  violet  he  could  procure,  I  told  him  that  he 
might  obtain  them  at  a  much  cheaper  rate ;  for  that 
the  astrologer  who  lives  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
Garonne,  possessed  the  marvellous  art  of  making 
them  flourish  at  all  seasons,  and  was  willing 
enough  to  sell  them  for  a  few  livres  tournois.  So, 
this  morning  at  break  of  day,  Pierrelle  rowed  the 
Sire  de  Nesle  across  the  river  in  his  boat ;  it  was 
Pierrelle  who  told  me  all  about  it.  The  astrologer 
had  only  this  one  bunch  of  violets,  for  which  the 
Sire  de  Nesle  gave  I  don't  know  how  many  crowns: 


CLEMENCE    ISAXJRE.  209 

and  on  his  return  in  the  boat,  he  was  so  overjoyed 
at  his  prize,  that  in  a  fit  of  laughter  he  leant  carelessly 
over  the  boat,  and  dropped  the  flowers  into  the  river. 
Behold  you !  without  making  any  more  ado  about 
it,  my  lord  springs  into  the  water  and  seizes  the 
nosegay,  but  the  water  was  so  deadly  cold  that  it 
chilled  his  limbs  and  he  could  not  swim.  Fortunately, 
Pierrelle  drew  him  safely  into  the  boat." 

"And  he  has  not  been  hurt?"  inquired  Clemence, 
breathlessly. 

"  He  has  only  caught  cold,"  replied  Susan. 

Clemence,  looking  upon  the  violets  with  emotion, 
placed  them  in  her  dark  hair,  and  descended  to  the 
saloon,  where  she  found  Amaury  seated  by  the  blazing 
hearth.  He  rose  to  greet  her,  and  fixing  his  eyes 
upon  the  violets,  seemed  by  his  glance  to  thank  her 
for  wearing  them. 

"  I  ought  to  scold  you.  Sire  Amaury,"  she  said 
to  him,  "  for  thus  adventuring  so  precious  a  life, 
but  I  go  to  seek  my  mother,  that  she  may  do  so." 

"  Stay  a  moment,  dearest  Clemence,"  said  the 
knight ;  "  let  us  converse  awhile,  I  have  so  many 
things  to  say  to  you.  Raymond  is  gone  to  Paris 
this  morning,  and  I  have  charged  him  to  prepare 
your  house  without  delay,  and  to  engage  your 
18* 


210  CLEMENCE    ISAXJKE. 

domestics.      He    lias    my    Commands     to     spare     no 
expense,  and  all  must  be  ready  before  spring." 

"  Do  you  think,  Amaury,  that  my  mother  will  then 
be  able  to  undertake  so  long  a  journey  ? " 

"  Your  mother,  Clemence !  does  she  mean  to 
accompany  us  to  Paris?" 

"  Amaury !  do  you  already  forget  the  stipulation 
I  made  on  the  evening  of  your  arrival,  and  your 
own  promise  on  the  Bible  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me,  dear  Clemence ;  but  have  you  also 
remembered  that  my  duty  will  recall  me  at  that  time 
to  court?  And  will  you  refuse  to  accompany  me 
thither  ?  " 

"  No,  assuredly,  Amaury,  but  my  mother  can  come 
with  us." 

"  And  she  shall  be  mistress  under  my  roof,  even 
as  she  is  here,"  said  Amaury,   with  tenderness. 

"  I  expected  no  less  from  your  courtesy.  Thanks, 
dear  Amaury,"  said  Clemence,  in  a  grateful  tone. 

"  How  I  shall  rejoice,  Clemence,  to  present  you  at 
court;  to  see  you  loveliest  among  the  lovely,  wittiest 
among  the  witty ;  for  you  will  eclipse  all  those 
noble  ladies  with  your  wit  and  your  acquirements." 

"What  an  idea,"  said  Clemence,  laughing ;  "as  if 
one  studied  for  the  sake  of  eclipsing  others !     Oh,  no. 


CLEMENCE    ISAURE.  211 

Amaury ;    it  was   only  to   amuse   my  poor   mother,  I 
assure  you,"  she  added  with  a  sigh. 

"  Be  it  so,  Clemence,  but  you  will  not  object  to 
shine  at  court  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  your  husband, 
will  you  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  my  happiness  and  my  duty,  Messire." 

"  There  are  to  be  brilliant  fetes  in  honor  of  the 
marriage  of  the  Dauphin  with  Anne  of  Brittany. 
You  shall  be  present  at  them  all,  and  no  lady^there 
shall  surpass  you  in  magnificence  of  dress." 

"  And  my  mother,  what  will  she  do,  Amaury,  while 
I  am  dancing  ?  "  inquired  Clemence,  after  a  moment 
of  sorrowful  hesitation. 

Her  question  was  unheeded  by  Amaury,  who 
continued  :  "  And  if  I  am  called  to  the  king's 
councils,  of  which  there  is  an  early  prospect,  you, 
beloved  Clemence,  shall  be  the  sharer  of  every  secret ; 
you  shall  ever  be  at  my  side  in  the  hours  of  my 
retirement,  and  my  own  opinion  shall  never  be 
suffered  to  prevail  over  yours." 

"  But,  while  I  am  thus  ..  occupied  with  aflfairs  of 
state,"  said  Clemence  in  a  melancholy  and  reproachful 
tone,  "  who  will  take  care  of  my  mother,  Sire  de 
Nesle?" 

"  Your    mother  ? "    said    Amaury,    suddenly    struck 


212  CLEMENCE    ISATTKE. 

with,  the  change  in  Clemence's  countenance.  "  Your 
mother !  I  thought  not  of  her,  dearest ;  your  mother 
is  her  own  mistress,  nor  would  I  presume  to  regulate 
her  course  of  life.  But  what  ails  you,  Clemence  ? 
Have  I  said  aught  to  displease  you  ?  If  I  have  been 
so  unfortunate,  it  has  been  most  unwittingly,  believe 
me.     Wherefore  are  you  going  away?" 

"I  have  not  seen  my  mother  to-day.  Sire  de  Nesle," 
replied  th.e  young  Toulousaine,  gently  disengaging  her 
hand  from  Amaury,  who  held  it  between  his  own ;  and 
she  left  the  apartment  hastily. 

The  Sire  de  Nesle  saw  her  no  more  on  that  day, 
and  the  ensuing  morning,  while  he  was  yet  unrisen, 
Clemence's  page  presented  him  with  a  letter  from  his 
young  mistress,  accompanied  by  a  small  ivory  casket. 
Amaury's  heart  beat  violently  while  be  broke  open 
the  blue  waxen  seal,  whereon  were  impressed  the 
arms  of  the  house  of  Toulouse.  He  read  as 
follows :  — 

"  Messike — You  know  not  with  what  deep  sorrow 
SD.y  heart  has  been  filled  since  yesterday  morning  ;  that 
conversation  has  engrossed  all  my  thoughts,  and  now 
my  resolution  is  formed.  Sire  de  Nesle,  I  can  never  be 
your  wife,  nor  that  of  any  other  knight ;  in  afflicting 


CLEMENCE    ISATTRE.  213 

my  poor  mother  with  blindness,  God  has  said  to  me, 
'  thou  shalt  never  quit  her,' — and  ought  I  to  suffer  any- 
human  being  to  reverse  this  sentence,  and  say  to  me, 
'  Quit  thy  mother  and  do  my  pleasure  ? ' 

"  Yesterday,  in  planning  your  future  life  and  mine, 
you  thought  not  of  my  mother,  and  when  I  reminded 
you  of  her,  you  seemed  astonished,  and  said  to  me, 
'OA,  I  did  not  think  of  her.'  This  is  not  said  to  you 
by  way  of  reproach.  Sire  ;  or  it  would  come  with  an 
ill  grace  from  me.  How  could  I  have  expected  you 
to  reserve  the  first  place  in  your  thoughts  for  my 
mother,  when  I  had  forgotten,  that,  in  becoming  your 
wife,  she  could  no  longer'  be  my  first  thought,  —  my 
first  duty  ? 

"  You  are  young,  noble,  rich.  Sire  de  Nesle,  and 
you  will  find  women  who  will  be  happy  to  bear  youi 
name  and  to  devote  their  whole  being  to  you.  As  for 
me,  I  could  not  do  so,  for  I  owe  it  all  to  her  whose 
happiness  depends  solely  upon  me.  If  I  were  married, 
my  poor  mother  would,  in  fact,  be  alone  in  the 
Avorld.  Where  could  she  find  another  daughter, 
when  the  child  whom  Heaven  had  bestowed  on 
her,  had  preferred  her  own  happiness  to  hers  ? 
No,  my  mother,  thy  daughter  will  never  leave 
thee. 


214  CLEMENCE    ISAUKE. 

"  Ah !  Sire,  you  cannot  love  my  mother  as  I  do, 
and  in  depriving  her  of  a  part  of  my  love,  what 
could  you  give  her  in  exchange  ? 

' '  If  your  heart  is  sad,  because  of  this  decision, 
remember  that  mine  is  breaking ;  but  my  mother ! 
what  would  become  of  her  without  me  ?  Even 
yesterday,  —  see  the  evils  I  was  preparing  for  her  in 
future  !  —  yesterday,  while  conversing  with  you,  I  had 
forgotten  her  a  moment ;  she  was  already  risen  when 
I  entered  her  chamber ;  I  had  lost  her  first  greeting 
and  her  earliest  smile.  Think  then  what  it  would 
be  afterwards ;  no,  no !  my  decision  is  made.  It  has 
caused  me  much  misery,  I  assure  you ;  and  so  I  have 
a  favor  to  ask  of  you.  If  you  wish  me  to  see  you 
again  without  painful  disquietude,  —  to  be  in  your 
presence  without  distress,  speak  to  me  no  more,  I 
beseech  you,  of  your  past  projects ;  for  pity's  sake, 
act  towards  me  as  if  we  had  never  been  affianced  to 
each  other.  I  can  be  your  sister,  your  friend,  but 
never  can  I  be  either  a  wife  or  a  mother.  This  is 
God's  will,  let  us  bow  to  it. 

"  Among  your  many  gifts,  I  have  kept  only  one,  — 
the  bunch  of  violets,  —  which  is  very  precious  because 
of  the  life  which  was  endangered  in  its  preservation. 
The    others    are    enclosed   in  a   casket   which   will   ba 


CLEMENCE    ISAURE.  215 

delivered  to  you  by  my  page ;  you  will  find  therein, 
also,  the  ten  thousand  crowns  fine. 

"  If  your  delicacy  forbids  your  acceptance  of  this 
sum,  I  pray  you  give  it  to  the  printers  in  Paris,  who 
are  such  benefactors  to  our  country,  and  to  whom  I 
heartily  wish  success  in  their  work. 

"  And  now,  Sire  Amaury,  if  you  have  the  courage 
to  come  and  say,  '  Farewell,  my  sister ! '  I  am  ready 
to  receive  you  ;  if  not,  depart,  and  may  heaven's 
choicest  blessings  be  your  portion. 

"  CXEMENCE    ISAUKE." 

The  Sire  of  Nesle  was  overwhelmed  with  sorrow  on 
reading  this  letter,  for  its  earnest  simplicity  deprived 
him  of  all  hope  of  shaking  Clemence's  determination. 
He  admired  the  courage  of  this  young  girl,  who 
renounced  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world  for  one 
only  bliss,  that  of  tending  her  mother  ;  and  amid 
the  fullness  of  his  admiration,  he  would  again  and 
again  feel  tempted  to  combat  her  resolution ;  but 
there  was  something  so  holy  and  so  pure  in  this 
devoted  love  of  a  daughter  to  her  widowed  parent, 
that  at  length  he  overcame  the  desire  of  his  heart. 

As  for  Clemence,  always  guided  by  the  wish  to 
amuse     her     mother,    whose     love    was    her    dearest 


216  CLEMENCE    ISAXJRE. 

recompense,  slie  gave  herself  up  to  literature,  and 
by  her  example  and  influence,  rekindled  among  her 
countrymen  a  taste  for  the  helles  lettres. 

In  former  times,  Toulouse  possessed  an  institution 
designated  the  "  College  of  the  Gay  Sciences^ 
Clemence  Isaure  reanimated  it  by  a  magnificent 
foundation,  the  floral  games,  which,  established 
during  her  lifetime,  was  confirmed  by  her  will. 
On  the  3d  of  May,  prizes  were  distributed  annually 
to  the  best  poems  presented  to  the  College,  and 
these  prizes  consisted  of  golden  violets  of  the  richest 
and  most  delicate  workmanship.  This  annual  fete 
was  opened  by  a  mass,  a  sermon,  and  an  ample 
distribution  of  arms  to  the  necessitous  poor. 

Clemence  Isaure  died  at  the  age  of  fifty,  unmarried ; 
and  was  quickly  followed  to  the  tomb  by  that  mother 
whoss  life  had  been  embellished  by  her  talents  and 
filial  piety. 


THE    PORTRAIT. 

BT  W.    C.   BENNETT. 

Yes,  there  it  blooms  for  ever  I 

That  girlish  face  so  fair, 
Upon  the  breathing  canvas,  — 

And  yet  not  only  there ; 
For,  like  as  is  its  sweetness, 

Far  fairer  is  it  wrought. 
In  all  its  gentle  beauty. 

Upon  the  painter's  thought. 

Lo,  while  his  pencil  drew  her, 

Within  the  stately  room 
Love  took  his  stand  beside  him. 

Amid  its  gorgeous  gloom ; 
And  as  upon  the  canvas 

Each  feature  stole  to  sight. 
Love  stamped  it  in  the  painter's  thought 

In  colors  yet  more  bright. 
19 


218  THE    PORTRAIt. 

Nor  fleeting  were  the  touclieg 

Of  that  immortal  art  — 
They  bloom  in  hues  unfading, 

Though  youth  and  years  depart; 
The  painter's  head  is  hoary, — 

Her  fair  face  wrinkles  fill, 
Yet,  bright  as  when  Love  drew  it. 

His  thoughts  retain  it  still. 


THE    GAME    OF    PROVERBS. 
[from    the    FEENCH.] 


BY  H.  H.  W. 


A  PARTY  had  assembled  at  the  seat  of  Sir  John 
Hatton  to  spend  the  Easter  recess.  The  host  and 
hostess  were  a  little  of  the  parvenu  genus,  but  they 
were  very  amiable,  and  their  great  wish  was  to  make 
their  country-place,  to  which  they  had  only  lately 
succeeded,  agreeable.  As  they  were  very  rich,  and 
had  a  magnificent  house  in  a  beautiful  country,  and 
as,  moreover.  Sir  John  kept  a  good  table,  had  a 
first-rate  chef  de  cuisine,  and  was  remarkable  for  his 
excellent  wines  (for  before  the  death  of  his  cousin, 
the  late  Sir  John,  he  had  been  a  wine-merchant).  Sir 
John  and  Lady  Hatton  had  no  difficulty  in  collecting 
a  host  of  friends  about  them  in  town,  and  of  these 
they  determined  to  select  only  quite  the  elile  for 
their   country   party.     The   only   difficulty    was   whom 


220  THE    GAME    OF    PROVERBS. 

to  choose.  Lady  Hatton,  whose  father  had  kept  a 
shop,  wished  to  invite  only  the  great  and  fashionable ; 
but  Sir  John,  whose  education  had  been  somewhat 
neglected  in  early  life,  preferred  men  of  talent  and 
science.  Lady  Hatton  was  too  amiable  to  contend 
with  her  husband,  and  so  Sir  John  invited  all  the 
first-rate  statesmen,  men  of  science,  poets,  novelists, 
and  artists  he  could  get.  Unfortunately,  however, 
the  result  was  not  exactly  what  he  expected.  The 
men  of  science  did  not  mix  well  with  the  men  of 
letters  and  the  artists;  for  they  had  no  subjects  in 
common,  they  felt  as  strangers  to  each  other ;  and 
each,  conscious  of  the  celebrity  attached  to  his  name, 
was  afraid  of  committing  himself,  and  doing  any 
thing  which  a  stranger  might  think  unworthy  of 
his  previous  reputation.  Nothing  can  cast  a  greater 
chill  over  society  than  a  fear  of  this  kind.  It  is 
a  perfect  wet  blanket  to  the  fire  of  genius.  So  the 
party,  though  consisting  of  some  of  the  cleverest  men 
of  the  day,  was  undeniably  slow ;  it  was  worse,  it  was 
dreadfully  dull ;  and  in  spite  of  the  good  cookery,  and 
the  good  wines,  the  dinners  did  not  go  oS"  well,  for 
the  guests  would  not  talk.  In  the  drawing-room  they 
were  still  silent ;  they  sauntered  about,  opened  books 
and  laid  them  down   again,  and  looked  the  pictures 


THE    GAME    OF    PROVERBS.  221 

of  ennui,  though.  Lady  Hatton  bustled  about  and  tried 
to  make  herself  agreeable,  and  Mrs.  Delcour,  a  joung 
widow,  who  was  pretty,  and  quite  aware  that  she  was 
so,  flirted  with  all  the  men  she  could  get  to  listen  tc 
her.  Lady  Hatton's  own  two  daughters,  who  had 
just  left  school,  gave  no  assistance  in  entertaining 
the  guests,  for  they  were  too  shy  to  talk,  and  made 
so  many  difficulties  about  playing  or  singing,  that  it 
was  quite  painful  to  ask  them. 

Only  two  days  of  the  week,  for  which  the  party 
had  been  invited,  had  passed,  when  it  became  quite 
evident  to  Mrs.  Delcour,  that  something  must  be 
done,  to  save  the  whole  party  from  dying  of  ennui, 
or  eloping  how  they  could :  indeed  one  or  two  had 
already  begun  to  talk  about  expecting  letters  on 
m'gent  business,  which  would  compel  them  to  tear 
themselves  away,  etc.,  etc.  On  the  evening  of  the 
second  day,  therefore,  when  the  whole  of  the  party 
had  left  the  dining-room,  and  the  gentlemen  were 
lounging  about  the  drawing-room  in  a  most  discon- 
solate manner,  Mrs.  Delcour  suddenly  exclaimed, 
"We  must  get  up  a  proverb." 

"What   an    excellent   idea!"    cried    Lady    Hatton, 
"  I  have  often  heard  of  proverbs  being  performed  by 
persons  of  rank  and  fastiion." 
19* 


222  THE    GAME    OF    PROVERBS. 

"It  shall  be  done."  said  Mrs.  Dclcour.  "But 
how  shall  \vc  sot  about  it?  Stanhope,  you  arc  jusl 
the  man  to  assist  me.  Don't  you  approve  of  the 
plan?" 

"  I  think  it  admirable ;  but  as  to  assisting  you,  I 
must  beg  you  to  excuse  me." 

"  No  excuse.  You  are  quite  celebrated  for  things 
of  this  kind.  I  heard  that,  you  had  the  entire 
management  of  the  prrjverbs  at  Lady  Herbert's  last 
winter." 

"  It  was  precisely  what  happened  there  that  has 
decided  me  never  to  attempt  to  get  up  a  proverb 
again." 

"  But  what  did  happen  there  ?  " 

"You  know  Lady  Herbert's  gouty  old  uncle,  the 
Admiral,  and  how  much  Lady  Herbert  always  wishes 
to  please  him?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!  lie's  an  old  bachelor,  and  very 
rich.  — Well?" 

"  He  was  to  choose  the  jjrovcrb,  and  he  chose  '  (Jood 
wine  needs  no  sign.'  " 

"Rather  an  odd  subject;  but  you  have  such  talents, 
you  can  spiritualize  any  thing." 

"  So  they  all  said ;  and  so,  at  last,  I  suffered 
myself  to   be    persuaded    to    undertake    it.     There    is 


THE    GAME    OF    PROVERBS.  223 

a  fine  picture  gallery  at  Herbert  Castle,  with  an  arch 
near  the  centre,  from  whicli  it  was  easy  to  lot  fall 
a  curtain,  and  doors  at  each  end  for  the  sejiarate 
ingress  and  egress  of  the  performers  and  audience. 
There  were  plenty  of  performers,  and  the  ladies 
were  all  crowding  round  me,  eager  to  know  what 
they  should  wear.  I  told  them  what  they  pleased, 
so  that  they  did  Init  act  as  /  pleased.  They  promised 
every  thing  that  could  be  desired,  and  so  I  drew  out 
my  plan." 

"  I  dare  say  you  had  a  good  deal  of  difficulty  in 
making  them  learn  their  parts." 

"  Difficulty  ?  Difficulty  is  no  word  for  it !  It  was 
absolute  martyrdom  !  Tlicy  would  not  learn  ;  they 
woidd  not  remember ;  and  I  could  never  get  them 
all  together  to  rehearse." 

"But  what  was  the  end?" 

*'  You  sliall  hear.  Finding  that  some  of  my  actors, 
who  would  perform  in  spite  of  every  thing,  had  neither 
memory  nor  presence  of  mind,  IIk;  idea  struck  me,  to 
tell  them,  if  they  found  themselves  in  any  difficulty, 
to  say,  '  I  hear  some  one  coming  ; '  and,  unfortunately, 
I  communicated  this  idea  to  them  all." 

"  But  why  unfortunately  ?  The  idea  appears  to  me 
a  very  good  one." 


224  THE    GAME    OF    PEOVERBS. 

"  So  it  did  to  mo ;  but  it  did  not  work  well." 

"How  so?" 

"  The  companj'  were  all  assembled.  All  the  beauty 
and  talent  of  the  neighborhood  were  collected  together. 
Every  body  was  in  high  spirits,  and  all  were  impatient 
for  the  performance  to  begin  —  and  —  as  Lady  Herbert 
had  whispered  about  that  the  whole  was  arranged  by 
me  —  all  eyes  were  turned  towards  me,  and  — 
and  "— 

"  Well !  well !     We  can  imagine  all  that.     Go  on  !  " 

"  The  first  person  who  was  to  appear  was  the  sister 
of  the  Admiral,  an  old  maid,  tall,  thin,  and  bony,  with 
a  very  long  neck,  and  a  skin  like  shrivelled  parchment ; 
and  she  would  absolutely  take  the  character  of  a  Swiss 
peasant,  with  all  the  accoutrements  complete." 

"  Oh  !  I  see  her  !  Miss  Priscilla  in  a  boddice,  short 
petticoats,  and  a  little  flat  hat,  stuck  on  the  side  of  her 
head  !     How  absurd  !  " 

"  Absurd,  indeed !  She  was  reclining  in  a  pensive 
attitude  with  a  crook,  when  the  curtain  drew  up,  and 
when  she  came  forward,  waving  her  lean,  naked  arms, 
and  sighed  deeply,  the  effect  was  so  ludicrous,  that  a 
suppressed  titter  ran  through  the  assemblage ;  and  the 
poor  shepherdess,  losing  her  presence  of  mind,  gazed 
wildly  around,  and  then  pressing  her  luand  upon  licr 


THE    GAME    OF    PROVERBS.  225 

side,  she  exclaimed,  '  I  hear  some  one  coming,'  and 
then  sat  down,  looking  just  ready  to  faint." 

"  How  very  droll !  " 

"  So  the  audience  seemed  to  find  it ;  but  it  was 
any  thing  but  droll  to  me,  for  she  should  have  made 
a  long  speech,  which  would  have  served  as  a  key-note 
to  all  the  rest ;  and  it  was  now  clear,  that  if  the  others 
did  remember  their  parts,  the  audience  would  be  in 
the  dark  as  to  what  they  were  about,  for  want  of 
the  explanation  which  was  to  have  been  given  by 
this  unlucky  shepherdess." 

"  Well !  what  happened  next  ?  " 

"  The  second  performer,  who  was  rather  dull,  but 
who  had  worked  hard  to  master  the  difficulties  of  his 
part,  hearing  his  cue,  rushed  in,  totally  unconscious  of 
what  had  happened  (for  he  was  absorbed  in  what  he 
was  to  do  himself)  and  began  his  first  speech,  which 
unluckily  turning  upon  what  the  shepherdess  ought  to 
have  said,  but  did  not  say,  and  which  he  was  supposed 
to  have  heard,  quite  overcame  the  politeness  of  the 
audience,  and  they  burst  into  peals  of  laughter ;  and 
when  the  unhappy  actor,  whose  part  was  tragic,  and 
who  could  not  think  what  made  them  laugh,  after 
looking  round  for  a  moment  or  two  in  dismay,  said, 
also,  '  I  hear  some  one  coming,'  the  efiect  was  over- 


226  THE    GAME    OF    PKOTEKBS. 

whelming.  The  audience,  including  even  the  Admiral 
and  Lady  Herbert,  were  almost  in  convulsions ;  and 
the  curtain  fell  amidst  vehement  cries  of  '  Bravo ! 
Encore ! '" 

"  At  any  rate,  the  audience  were  amused  ? " 
"  Yes  !  And  Ave  laughed  it  off  as  well  as  we 
could ;  but  it  was  rather  hard  work,  particularly  as, 
during  the  remaining  three  or  four  days  that  I  was 
obliged  to  remain  in  the  house,  if  ever  I  hesitated  or 
stammered  about  any  thing  —  and  really  I  did  make 
more  blunders  than  I  ever  did  before  in  my  life  — 
my  friends  were  sure  to  laugh,  and  to  suggest  that 
probably  '  I  heard  some  one  coming.'  " 

During  this  dialogue  the  whole  party  had  collected 
round  Mrs.  Delcour  and  Mr.  Stanhope ;  and  as  the 
ludicrous  distresses  of  the  latter  made  them  lausrh, 
it  had  the  effect  of  thawing  the  ice  that  seemed  to 
have  bound  up  their  faculties ;  and  they  all  agreed 
to  take  a  part  in  a  new  proverb,  in  performing  Avhich 
they  promised  to  behave  better  than  the  unfortunate 
performers  at  Herbert  Castle.  A  proverb  was  selected, 
and  a  rough  outline  of  the  mode  in  which  it  was  to  be 
worked  out  having  been  settled,  the  rest  was  left  to  the 
performers  to  fill  up,  which  they  did  so  admirably,  that 


THE    GAME    OF    PKOVEKBS.  227 

every  body  was  delighted ;  and  proverbs  and  charades 
were  performed  alternately  during  the  remainder  of  the 
week  of  vacation,  which  they  all  agreed  was  one  of  the 
pleasantest  they  had  ever  passed. 


SONG    OF    A    CAGED    BIRD. 

Oh,  could  I  gain  yon  woodland  grove, 
How  light  would  be  my  wing! 

How  would  I  gayly,  wildly  rove 
Amid  the  flowers  of  Spring! 

And,  oh!  how  jocund  were  my  song, 
How  free  my  bounding  flight ; 

Roving  my  native  hills  among. 
And  fluttering  with  delight! 

And  with  first  rosy  peep  of  day, 
From  waving  branch  I'd  rise; 

My  blithesome  song  from  spray  to  spray 
Should  echo  thro'  the  skies. 

But  no!  —  the  gay  and  happy  band. 

Singing  in  careless  glee, 
And  wandering  free  in  sunny  land. 

Have  no  fond  thought  of  me ! 


SONG  OF  A  CAGED  BIRD.  229 

In  flow'ry  mead,  and  forest  glade, 

Sad  should  I  sit  alone ; 
E'en  in  the  hawthorn's  silvery  glade 

My  song  would  be  my  moan. 

And  where  would  be  the  kindly  voice 

That  cheers  my  lonely  hour, 
If  it  were  my  ungrateful  choice 

To  fly  her  fav'rite  bower? 

But  the  fair  hand  that  tends  me  here, 

Is  kind  and  constant  too ; 
Ah!  would  those  distant  shades  be  dear 

If  from  that  hand  I  flew? 

Ah,  no!  —  the  heart  that  fondly  beats 

With  Gratitude's  sweet  chain, 
Tho'  smiling  freedom  kindly  greets. 

Would  ne'er  be  free  again! 
20 


THE    TRIFLES    OF    LIFE; 
OB,     TBIFLES     NOT     ALWAYS     TBIVIAL. 


BY  M.  H. 


Ix  is  wont  to  be  affirmed  of  women,  in  a  sarcastic 
tone,  that  their  lives  are  made  up  of  trifles,  —  and, 
perhaps,  in  a  certain  sense  the  accusation  may  be 
a  true  one,  for  the  duties  which  are  allotted  to  our 
sex  consist  chiefly  of  quiet  and  unobtrusive  offices, 
which,  in  their  rapid  succession,  may  seem  trivial 
to  those  wnose  minds  are  occupied  with  the  stirring 
business  of  life ;  but  we  would  venture  to  remind 
these  contemners  of  our  homelier  lot,  that  small 
matters  only  become  trifling  by  the  trivial  spirit  in 
which  they  are  pursued ;  that  this  material  world 
itself,  "  clogged  with  its  weighty  mass  of  joy  and 
woe,"  is  composed  of  atoms,  and  that  the  long 
flight  of  ages,  bearing  upon  their  wings  the  destiny 
of   humanity,   is   measured   out  by   single    moments. 


THE    TKIFLES    OF    LIFE.  231 

Let  us  not,  therefore,  undervalue  the  value  of  trifles, 
but  strive  to  impart  a  dignity  to  every  occupation, 
however  humble  or  however  passing  be  its  nature, 
by  the  spirit  of  truth  and  kindliness  with  which  it  is 
performed.  It  would,  indeed,  be  well  for  us  women, 
if,  even  in  our  highest  and  gravest  duties,  we  kept 
in  mind  the  gentle  admonition  of  the  poet, — 

"He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  great  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

Even  in  our  efforts  to  do  good  to  others,  may  we 
not  oftentimes  fail  from  a  want  of  that  loving  spirit 
which  clothes  the  most  trivial  acts  with'  grace,  and 
which  enables  the  possessor  of  it,  whether  poor  or 
rich,  to  soothe  the  sad  and  ruffled  spirit,  and  to 
strengthen  the  feeble  one?  It  has  occurred  to  me 
more  than  once  in  my  life,  to  observe  from  my  own 
experience  how  closely  the  bonds  of  human  fellowship 
may  be  drawn  together  by  some  small  links  of  passing 
kindliness,  so  trivial  that  they  scarcely  seem  to  merit 
record ;  and  yet  I  am  tempted  to  note  down  here  one 
•r  two  such  instances,  in  the  hope  that  they  may 
encourage  others  of  my  own  sex  whose  circumstances 


232  THE    TRIFLES    OF    LIFE. 

may  preclude  their  doing  great,  things  for  others,  but 
whose  hearts  may  nevertheless  long  for  opportunities 
of  aiding  those  whose  spirits  droop  as  they  pass  wearily 
along  the  highway  of  life. 

%  it-  ■»  ii^  a-  % 

"She  won't  give  you  a  flower — not  she,  indeed!" 
Such  were  the  words  which  met  my  ear,  as  I  hurried 
through  the  streets  on  a  showery  spring  morning, 
carrying  in  my  hand  a  nosegay  of  those  early  blossoms 
which  are  doubly  welcome  to  our  sight,  as  the  har- 
bingers of  sunnier  hours  and  brighter  skies.  I  was 
on  my  way  to  an  invalid,  to  whom  flowers  were  indeed 
even  a  valued  gift  —  to  her  tliey  cheered  the  long 
hours  of  lonely  suffering,  and  every  bright  hue  and 
lovely  form  seemed  to  suggest  thoughts  of  soothing 
hope  and  comfort,  whilst  they  directed  her  mind  to 
that  All-mighty  and  yet  All-loving  Father  who,  whilst 
He  "  calleth  the  stars  by  their  names,"  is  yet  careful 
thus  to  clothe  the  grass  of  the  field,  and  to  lavish 
beauty  on  the  very  herbs  that  we  tread  beneath  our 
feet. 

A  far  different  being  from  this  patient  sufierer  was 
she  whose  cold,  scornful  words  had  fallen  so  harshly 
upon  my  ear.  As  I  walked  hastily  along,  anxious  to 
escape  from  the  increasing  rain,   I  had  not  perceived 


THE    TKIFLES    OF    LIFE.  233 

by  the  side  of  the  path  a  middle-aged  woman,  of 
repelling  aspect,  who  held  in  her  arms  a  sickly  child, 
that  reached  out  its  little  hand,  with  a  longing  gaze, 
towards  the  bright  flowers  which  I  held,  and  struggled 
in  its  inarticulate  language  to  express  its  wish  to  pos- 
sess the  treasure.  It  was  in  answer  to  these  demon- 
strations on  the  part  of  the  child,  that  the  mother  had 
made  the  observation  which  had  drawn  my  attention, 
and  arrested  me  in  my  course.  I  stopped,  and  pulling 
out  some  of  the  gayest  and  gaudiest  of  the  group, 
placed  them,  with  a  few  words  of  kindness,  in  the 
infant's  grasp,  whilst  the  mother  thanked  me,  and 
fondled  her  crowing  child  with  an  expression  of 
mingled  surprise  and  pleasure. 

The  incident  was  a  trifling,  and  might  seem  an 
unimportant  one  ;  but  how  often  has  it  since  recurred 
to  my  mind,  as  I  have  passed  in  the  way  those  whose 
countenances  have  betrayed  inward  feelings  of  discon- 
tent with  their  own  lot,  and  dislike  towards  those  who 
possessed  more  of  the  comforts  and  luxuries  of  life  than 
themselves.  What  a  key  to  the  heart-burnings,  the 
jealousy,  the  dislike,  which  are  felt,  alas !  by  many 
a  poor  man  and  woman  to  their  neighbors,  lies  in 
those    words,    spoken    by  a    mother,    in    bitterness   of 

spirit,  "  iS/te  would  not  give  you  a  Jlowerf 
20* 


234  THE    TRIFLES    OF    LIFE. 

For  the  relief  of  absolute  want  and  wretchedness, 
few  who  are  blessed  with  this  world's  goods,  are 
so  hard-hearted  as  to  refuse  the  contribution  which 
it  costs  but  little  effort  to  bestow  —  but  it  is  not 
money,  mere  money,  given  and  received,  which  will 
draw  together  in  kindly  union  the  hearts  of  the 
richer  and  the  poorer  classes  amongst  us.  It  is 
rather  that  interchange  of  words  and  deeds  of 
kindness,  which  it  might  seem  almost  trivial  to 
enumerate,  but  which  speak  more  to  the  hearts  of 
our  fellow-men  than  hundreds  given  with  a  cold 
heart  or  a  careless  hand.  Well  has  it  been  said  by 
a  writer  of  the  present  day,  whose  observations  on  the 
"  Ways  of  the  Rich  and  Great "  *  are  full  of  valuable 
hints  on  this  and  kindred  subjects  :  "In  the  ordinary 
intercourse  of  good  offices,  it  is  very  important  to  be 
•pleasant  to  the  poor,  for  services  alone  will  not 
cultivate  their  affections,  and  those  who  would  visit 
them  for  every-day  purposes  of  charity,  should  be, 
by  their  nature  and  temperament,  genial,  cordial, 
and  firm.  In  order  that  the  poor  may  feel  that  the 
rich  are  in  sympathy  with  them,  the  rich  must  take 
a   pleasure    in   their  pleasures,    as  well    as  pity  then^ 

*  Taylor's  "Notes  from  Books." 


THE    TKIFLES    OF    LIFE.  235 

in  their  distress.  When  the  rich  give  of  their 
abandance  to  those  who  want  bread,  it  may  be 
supposed  to  be  done  for  very  shame,  under  the  con- 
straint of  common  humanity.  When  they  take  order 
for  the  instruction  and  discipline  of  the  poor,  they 
are  conferring  a  species  of  benefit,  for  which,  however 
essential,  they  must  not  expect  a  return  in  gratitude 
or  affection.  But  if  they  bear  in  mind,  that  amuse- 
ment is  in  truth  a  necessary  of  life,  that  human  nature 
cannot  dispense  with  it,  and  that,  by  the  nature  of 
men's  amusements,  their  moral  characters  are  in  a 
great  measure  determined,  they  will  be  led  so  to 
deal  with  the  poor  as  to  make  it  manifest  to  them 
that  they  like  to  see  them  happy,  and  they  will  be 
beloved  accordingly." 

Nor  is  it  merely  those  who  are  rich  in  this  world's 
goods  who  have  the  power  thus  to  dispense  happiness 
around  them.  Well  would  it  be  for  us  each  one  to 
remember  that  every  man  who  breathes,  whether 
master  or  servant,  employer  or  employed,  young  and 
old,  rich  and  poor,  each  has  it  in  his  power,  as  he 
passes  along  his  own  life-path,  either  to  shed  a  ray 
of  sunshine  on  that  of  his  fellow-man,  or  to  darken 
it  by  his  shade.  Well  do  I  remember,  though  many 
a  year   has    passed    since    then,   how  pleasant   to  me 


236  THE    TEIFLES    OF    LIFE 

was  one  such  little  act  of  kindness,  slio'vr  by  one 
who  was  herself  dependent  upon  the  bounty  others 
for  her  daily  bread.  Old  Bessie  Milman  had  the 
charge  of  an  empty  house  which  we  were  furnishing, 
and,  whilst  it  was  still  in  an  unfinished  state,  I  went 
thither  during  several  successive  mornings,  tempted 
by  a  new  piano,  to  practise  before  breakfast.  Pooi 
Bessie  thought  that  "  the  young  lady  must  surely 
be  cold  and  hungry,  so  long  without  her  break- 
fast;" and  never  shall  I  forget  the  look  of  anxious 
kindness  with  which  she  came  up  to  me  in  her  neat 
old-fashioned  white  cap,  and  well-folded  kerchief, 
carrying  a  nice  roast  aj^ple,  surrounded  with  crumbs 
of  bread,  which  she  thought  I  might  "  perhaps  be 
able  to  relish,"  nor  the  pleasure  she  seemed  to  feel 
when  she  saw  that  I  was  gratified  by  her  kind 
thought  of  me.  This  may  seem  almost  too  trivial 
an  incident  to  notice,  but  it  was  one  which  early 
impressed  on  my  mind  the  conviction,  that  the  poorest 
as  well  as  the  wealthiest  has  it  in  his  power  either  to 
bestow  a  Jlower  upon  his  neighbor,  or  to  plant  a  thorn 
in  his  path. 

Which  of  us  are  so  fortunate  as  not  to  remember, 
amongst  the  circle  of  our  acquaintances,  some  from 
whose    socipty   we    shrink    with    a    sort    of  instinctive 


N  THE   TRIFLES     OF    XIFE.  2117 

dread  ?  not  on  account  of  any  moral  evil  m  their 
character  or  disposition,  but  simply  because  we  never 
leave  their  presence  without  feeling,  as  some  one  has 
rather  quaintly  expressed  it,  as  if  "  we  had  been  rubhed 
np  the  wrong  toay."  They  may  be,  in  reality,  most 
kind-hearted  people.  If  you  had  a  fever,  and  required 
their  care,  they  would  watch  over  you  night  and  day ; 
but,  in  your  hour  of  health,  and,  as  they  conceive,  of 
happiness,  they  would  never  thiuk  of  "-giving  you  a 
Jlower ; "  they  would  not  even  be  able  to  understand 
why  you  should  want  one. 

On  the  other  hand,  can  we  not  each  recall  to  mind 
some  happy  being  —  whether  he  be  rich  or  poor,  it 
matters  not  —  whose  very  presence  seems  to  cast  oil 
upon  troubled  waters,  whose  kindly  tones  cheer  the 
drooping  spirit,  whose  look  of  sympathy  and  love  is 
balm  to  the  wounded  heart,  and  to  whom  the  poor, 
the  suffering,  even  the  little  child,  will  turn  as  if  by 
instinct,  and  feel  assured  that  there,  at  least,  no 
chilling  repulse  is  to  be  feared,  but  that  "  such  as 
he  has,"  even  if  it  be  only  a  jlower^  he  will  give  it 
to  them  with  an  ungrudging  heart. 

Happy,  notwithstanding  "  all  the  ills  that  flesh  is 
heir  to,"  would  this  world  be,  if  we  were  each  one, 
in  our  o^vn   sphere,    to  cultivate   more  of  this   spii'it; 


238  THE    TRIFLES    OF    LIFE. 

to  seek,  as  we  pass  onwards  through  life,  for  oppor- 
tunities of  gladdening  the  heart  of  our  fellow-man, 
and  being  ever  ready  to 

"  Give  and  forgive,  do  Good  and  love  ; 
By  soft  endearments  in  kind  strife, 
Lightening  the  load  of  daily  life." 


THE    SUMMEK    EVENING. 

I  iiOVE  the  summer  evening 

When  the  sun  has  left  the  west, 
And  when  upon  the  wood-crowned  hill 

The  golden  clouds  still  rest. 
The  light  breeze  sweeps  the  unmown  grass. 

Refreshing,  sweet,  and  cool, 
And  shadows  from  the  birch  trees  pass 
Upon  the  surface  still  as  glass 

Of  the  shallow  meadow-pool. 

The  sheep  upon  the  barren  downs, 

The  copse  upon  the  hill, 
The  hawthorn  on  the  village  green, 

All  now  are  hushed  and  still ; 
And  let  me  lean  upon  the  stile 

Above  the  corn-clad  slope, 
"Which  oft  has  heard  the  whispered  word 

Of  dawning  love  and  hope. 


240  THE    SUMMEE    EVENING. 

Beside  it  in  the  running  brook 
The  flow'ring  rushes  wave, 

And  in  the  waters  cool  and  bright 
Their  rosy  clusters  lave ; 

The  dewy  grass  beneath  your  feet, 
The  calm  blue  sky  above, 

The  wild  flowers  bright  beneath  the  hedge, 

All  whisper  now  of  love  — 

That  power  which  to  man  is  given 
To  leave  on  earth  one  trace  of  heaven, 
To  cheer  in  toil,  and  care,  and  strife, 
To  brighten  all  our  mortal  life, 
To  check  our  sighs  and  dry  our  tears. 
And  chase  away  our  craven  fears. 
And  whisper.  There  is  hope  above, 
For  love  is  Heaven,  and  God  is  Love. 


THE    FLOWER    GATHEREK, 

[fKOM     the     GERMAN     OF     KRTTMMACHER.I 

God  sends  upon  the  winds  of  Spring 
Fresh  thoughts  into  the  breasts  of  flowers. 

Miss  Bremer. 

The  young  and  innocent  Theresa  had  passed  the 
most  beautiful  part  of  the  spring  upon  a  bed  of 
sickness ;  and  as  soon  as  she  began  to  regain  her 
strength,  she  spoke  of  flowers,  asking  continually 
if  her  favorites  were  again  as  lovely  as  they  had 
been  the  year  before,  when  she  had  been  able  to 
seek  for  and  admire  them  herself.  Erick,  the  sick 
girl's  little  brother,  took  a  basket,  and  showing  it  to 
his  mamma,  said  in  a  whisper,  "  Mamma,  I  will  run 
out  and  get  poor  Theresa  the  prettiest  I  can  find  in 
the  fields."  So  out  he  ran,  for  the  first  time  for 
many  a  long  day,  and  he  thought  that  spring  had 
never  been  so  beautiful   before  ;    for  he  looked   upon 

it  with  a  gentle  and  loving  heart,  and  enjoyed  a  run 
21 


242  THE    rxOWEK    GATHEEEK. 

in  the  firesli  air,  after  having  been  a  prisoner  by  the 
sister's  couch,  whom  he  had  never  left  during  her 
illness.  The  happy  child  rambled  about,  up  and 
dovpn  hill.  Nightingales  sang,  bees  hummed,  and 
butterflies  flitted  around  him,  and  the  most  lovely 
flowers  were  blowing  at  his  feet.  He  jumped  about, 
he  danced,  he  sang,  and  wandered  from  hedge  to 
hedge,  and  from  flower  to  flower,  with  a  soul  as 
pure  as  the  blue  sky  above  him,  and  eyes  that 
sparkled  like  a  little  brook  bubbling  from  a  rock. 
At  last  he  had  filled  his  basket  quite  full  of  the 
prettiest  flowers ;  and,  to  crown  all,  he  had  made  a 
wreath  of  field  strawberry  flowers,  which  he  laid  on 
the  top  of  it,  neatly  arranged  on  some  grass,  and 
one  might  fancy  them  a  string  of  pearls,  they  looked 
so  pure  and  fresh.  The  happy  boy  looked  with 
delight  at  his  full  basket,  and  putting  it  down  by 
his  side,  rested  himself  in  the  shade  of  an  oak,  on 
a  carpet  of  soft  green  moss.  Here  he  sat,  looking 
at  the  beautiful  prospect  that  lay  spread  out  before 
him  in  all  the  freshness  of  spring,  and  listening  to 
the  ever-changing  songs  of  the  birds.  But  he  had 
really  tired  himself  out  with  joy;  and  the  merry 
sounds  of  the  fields,  the  buzzing  of  the  insects,  and 
the   birds'   songs,    all    helped    to    send   him  to   sleep. 


THE    FLOWER    GATHERER.  243 

And  peacefully  the  fair  cliild  slumbered,  his  rosy 
cheek  resting  on  the  hands  that  still  held  his 
treasured  basket. 

But  while  he  slept  a  sudden  change  came  on.  A 
storm  arose  in  the  heavens,  but  a  few  moments  before 
so  blue  and  beautiful.  Heavy  masses  of  clouds 
gathered  darkly  and  ominously  together ;  the  light- 
ning flashed  and  the  thunder  rolled  louder  and 
nearer.  Suddenly  a  gust  of  wind  roared  in  the 
boughs  of  an  oak,  and  startled  the  boy  out  of  his 
quiet  sleep.  He  saw  the  wholet  heavens  veiled  by 
black  clouds ;  not  a  sunbeam  gleamed  over  the 
fields,  and  a  heavy  clap  of  thunder  followed  his 
waking.  The  poor  child  stood  up,  bewildered  at 
the  sudden  change ;  and  now  the  rain  began  to 
patter  through  the  leaves  of  the  oak,  so  he  snatched 
up  his  basket  and  ran  towards  home  as  fast  as  his 
legs  could  carry  him.  The  storm  seemed  to  burst 
over  his  head.  Rain,  hail,  and  thunder,  striving  for 
the  mastery,  almost  deafened  him,  and  made  him  more 
bewildered  every  minute.  Water  streamed  from  his 
poor  soaked  curls  down  his  shoulders,  and  he  could 
scarcely  see  to  find  his  way  homewards.  All  on  a 
sudden  a  more  violent  gust  of  wind  than  usual 
caught    the    treasured   basket,    and    scattered   all   his 


244  THE    FLOWER    GATHEKEK. 

carefully  collected  flowers  far  away  over  the  field.  His 
patience  could  endure  no  longer,  for  his  face  grew 
distorted  with  rage,  and  he  flung  the  empty  basket 
from  him,  with  a  burst  of  anger.  Crying  bitterly, 
and  thoroughly  wet,  he  reached  at  last  his  parents' 
house  in  a  pitiful  plight. 

But  soon  another  change  appeared ;  the  storm 
passed  away,  and  the  sky  grew  clear  again.  The 
birds  began  their  songs,  anew,  the  countryman  his 
labor.  The  air  had  become  cooler  and  purer,  and  a 
bright  calm  seemed  to  lie  lovingly  in  every  valley 
and  on  every  hill.  What  a  delicious  odor  rose  from 
the  freshened  fields !  —  and  their  cultivators  looked 
with  grateful  joy  at  the  departing  clouds,  which  had 
poured  the  fertilizing  rain  upon  them.  The  sight  of 
the  blue  sky  soon  tempted  the  frightened  boy  out 
again,  and  being  by  this  time  ashamed  of  his  ill- 
temper,  he  went  out  very  quietly  to  look  for  his 
discarded  basket,  and  to  try  and  fill  it  again.  He 
seemed  to  feel  a  new  life  within  him.  The  cool 
breath  of  the  air  —  the  smell  of  the  fields  —  the 
leafy  trees  —  the  warbling  birds,  all  appeared  doubly 
beautiful  after  the  storm,  and  the  humiliating  con- 
sciousness of  his  foolish  and  unjust  ill- temper 
softened  and  chastened  his  joy.     After  a  long  search 


THE    FLOWEK    GATHEEEE.  245 

he  spied  the  basket  lying  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  for 
a  bramble  bush  had  caught  it,  and  sheltered  it  from 
the  violence  of  the  wind.  The  child  felt  quite 
thankful  to  the  ugly-looking  bush,  as  he  disen- 
tangled the  basket. 

But  how  great  was  his  delight,  on  looking  around 
him,  to  see  the  fields  spangled  with  flowers,  as 
numerous  as  the  stars  of  heaven !  —  for  the  rain  had 
nourished  into  blossoms  thousands  of  daisies,  opened 
thousands  of  buds,  and  scattered  pearly  drops  on  every 
leaf.  Erick  flitted  about  like  a  busy  bee,  and  gathered 
away  to  his  heart's  content.  The  sun  was  now 
near  his  setting,  and  the  happy  child  hastened  home 
with  his  basket  full  once  more.  How  delighted  he 
was  with  his  flowery  treasure,  and  with  the  pearly 
garland  of  fresh  strawberry-flowers !  The  rays  of  the 
sinking  sun  played  over  his  fair  face  as  he  wandered 
on,  and  gave  his  pretty  features  a  placid  and  con- 
tented expression.  But  his  eyes  sparkled  much 
more  joyously  when  he  received  the  kisses  and 
thanks  of  his  gentle  sister.  "Is  it  not  true,  dear," 
said  his  mother,  "  that  the  pleasures  we  prepare  for 
others  are  the  best  of  all?" 
r  21* 


THE    IRISH    MOTHER. 


BY  L.   G. 


Dbink,  cliild,  'tis  the  last  drop  in  the  can. 

Yet  it  is  all  for  you ; 
Our  poor  old  cow,  —  that  too  is  gone,  —    • 

And  what  are  we  to  do  ? 

Yet  drink,  child,  drink! 

They  drove  her  off,  —  the  poor  old  cow, — 

She  went  to  pay  the  rent; 
There's  nothing  left  to  keep  us,  now 

That  every  thing  is  spent : 

Yet  drink,  chUd,  drink! 

Youi  father,  he  has  gone  away, 

Far,  far  over  the  seas. 
To  a  happy  land,  wherein,  they  say, 

There's  naught  but  wealth  and  ease: 
Then  drink,  child,  drink ! 


THE    IKISH    MOTHER.  247 

And  we  will  follow  him  there,  we  two, 
We  will  follow  him  over  the  sea 

To  the  land  where  there  is  so  little  to  do, 
And  a  lady  perhaps  you  will  be ! 

Then  drink,  darling,  drink! 


THE    LIFE    RANSOM. 


BY   GEORGIANA   C.    MUNEO. 


Softly  the  west  wind  stole  over  the  sunny  lake, 
and  welcome  to  us  was  even  its  low  faint  breath,  as 
we  sat  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  forest  trees  in  the 
sultry  hour  of  summer  noon-tide.  Before  us  the  broad 
Huron  was  flashing  in  the  sun  rays,  divided  from  the 
flower-gemmed  bank  by  a  belt  of  glittering  sand,  while 
on  our  right  the  bold  headland  stretched  far  into  the 
sleeping  waters,  whereon  rock,  and  tree,  and  grassy 
mound  were  brightly  mirrored. 

Nothing  of  life  stirred  in  the  silent  wilderness,  save 
the  brilliant  butterflies  hovering  around  more  gayly- 
tinted  blossoms,  and  the  bright  humming-birds,  with 
their  emerald  and  ruby  plumage,  glancing  like  jewels 
in  the  sunshine,  fluttering  over  the  flowery  shrubs, 
and  darting  away  across  the  honey-comb  quartz  that 
gleamed  between  us  and  the  point,  with  a  low  hum 
as   though   they    were    murmuring    tales    of  the    gold 


THE    LIFE    RANSOM.  249 

which  slept  below.  But  all  the  unsunned  treasures 
which  the  gold-bloom  might  indicate,  were  in  worth 
far  below  the  priceless  offering  once  laid  upon  those 
stones ;  and  many,  many  years  must  pass  away,  ere 
time,  or  change,  the  foot  of  the  stranger,  or  the 
hand  of  the  gold-seeker,  shall  banish  the  memories 
which  cling  around  the  spot.  Though  strange  to 
us,  they  were  familiar  to  more  than  one  of  our 
companions,  and  as  we  sat  there  beneath  the  lofty 
sycamores,  with  the  noonday  sun  pouring  down  light 
and  beauty  on  the  fertile  earth  and  deep  blue  waters, 
the  tale  to  which  we  listened,  gained,  perchance,  a 
deeper  interest  from  the  scene  of  its  relation. 

The  coming  winter  had  breathed  his  first  frost- 
spell  over  the  forest,  turning  to  crimson  and  gold, 
and  silver,  its  garb  of  varied  green,  when,  one  eve- 
ning, a  girl  sat  on  the  grassy  bank  watching  the 
latest  sunbeams  fade  from  the  glowing  sky  and 
darkening  lake.  The  sunset  hues  had  left  the 
clouds,  and  the  stars  were  glancing  forth  to  mirror 
themselves  in  the  blue  waters,  but  still  the  girl  kept 
her  post ;  gazing  along  the  shore,  and  afar  in  the 
distance.  She  was  alone,  yet  the  line  of  tall  trees 
bordering  the  forest  concealed  an  Indian  encampment, 
and  above  their  heads  several  columns  of  gray  smoke 


250  IHE    XIFE    RANSOM. 

were  soaring  up  into  the  evening  sky,  while  the  mur- 
mur of  voices  rose  on  the  air,  and  at  times  peals  of 
laughter  echoed  through  the  woods. 

But  Wabegwona  cared  not  to  join  in  the  merriment. 
She  was  watching  for  the  return  of  her  nearest  rela- 
tive, who  had  ever  been  to  her  as  a  brother,  and 
dreaming  such  dim  visions  as  she  could  dream  of 
the  scenes  and  the  people  among  whom  her  mother 
had  been  born.  For,  though  her  hair  was  dark  as 
midnight,  and  her  features  those  of  the  race  with 
whom  she  dwelt,  there  was  enough  in  the  maiden's 
fairer  complexion  and  deep  blue  eyes  to  have  won 
her  the  name  of  Wabegwona  (White  Lilly),  which 
was  bestowed  upon  her  by  her  tribe. 

"  Her  father,  long  dead,  had  been  a  great  chief, 
but  her  mother  had  been  found  as  a  child  by  the 
Ottowas  among  the  ruins  of  an  American  out-post 
which  another  nation  had  destroyed;  and,  carried 
away  and  adopted  by  them,  had  become  the  wife  of 
one  of  their  bravest  warriors.  Yet,  amid  all  the 
contrasts  of  her  wild  forest  life,  the  fair-haired 
daughter  of  the  pale-faces  had  retained  some  faint 
recollection  of  the  past  to  breathe  into  the  wondering 
ear  of  her  child,  before  she,  also,  was  called  away, 
and    Wabegwona    was    left    an    orphan  —  alone,    save 


THE    LIFE    RANSOM.  251 

for  Laguiab,  the  son  of  her  father's  brother,  who 
had  taken  her  to  his  home,  and  bade  his  mother 
look  upon  her  as  a  daughter.  And  the  young  men, 
to  whom  her  smile  was  cold  as  sun-lit  snow,  and  the 
old  women,  who  were  for  ever  whispering  like  the 
forest  leaves,  said  that  Laguiab  would  make  her  his 
wife.  But  the  maiden's  heart  was  still  in  her  mother's 
grave,  and  the  boldest  hunter  and  bravest  warrior  of 
the  Ottowas  feared  to  draw  it  thence  too  rashly,  lest 
it  might  shrink  away  from  his  touch. 

And  now  a  dark  speck  glided  among  the  starbeams 
on  the  lake,  and  a  canoe  came  bounding  forward 
eagerly,  like  a  wild  deer  to  its  favorite  haunt.  It 
was  that  for  which  Wabegwona  watched,  and  a  smile 
lit  up  her  features  as  she  beheld  it,  and  her  thoughts 
which  had  been  wandering  far  beyond  the  dark  forest 
and  the  gleaming  waves,  flew  back  to  the  present. 

"  The  rifle  of  Laguiab  has  not  been  idle,"  said 
Wabegwona,  who  stood  on  the  shore  to  welcome  her 
cousin.  "  He  has  lingered  long,  but  his  canoe  is 
heavy." 

"  The  rifle  of  Laguiab  has  been  his  encrriy,"  replied 
the  hunter  niournfully.  "  Let  my  sister  bid  the  young 
men  come  hither,  for  the  load  in  his  canoe  lies  heavy 
on  the  heart  of  Laguiab." 


252  THE    LIFE    KA-NSOM, 

One  glance  liad  told  tlie  girl  tliat  a  stranger  lay 
to  all  appearance  lifeless  in  the  canoe,  and  she 
hastened  to  summon  the  hunters  from  the  fires, 
around  which  they  were  talking  of  the  past  day's 
exploits.  Then  she  went  on  to  tell  her  aunt  of  the 
guest  they  might  expect. 

How  Wabegwona's  heart  beat  as  the  Ottowas  bore 
the  wounded  stranger  into  the  lodge,  and  she  saw 
that  he  was  not  merely  young  and  handsome,  for 
that  was  little  then  to  her,  but  of  the  race  her 
mother  had  always  loved  !  And  when  the  medicine- 
men had  done  their  best,  and  so  they  said,  charmed 
the  bullet  out  of  the  wound,  and  spoken  the  wise 
words  which  would  make  their  herb-potions  drive 
away  the  evil  spirit  of  fever  and  call  back  health 
to  the  sufierer,  then  Laguiab  came  to  her  and  told 
her  how  a  branch  had  caught  the  trigger  of  his 
rifle,  and,  without  his  touch,  it  had  struck  down 
the  white  hunter  in  the  moment  he  first  beheld 
him. 

"  But  Wabegwona  will  be  a  sister  to  the  pale 
face,"  continued  the  young  Ottowa.  "  She  will  know 
that  it  is  the  heart  of  Laguiab  which  lies  wounded 
in  his  lodge,  and  she  will  watch  over  the  stranger 
as    the    eagle   watches    over    her    young    one,   until 


THE    LIFE    KANSOM.  253 

his    Avings  are   strong,    and  his  eyes    can   look  boldly 
on  the  sun." 

As  the  summer  Avind  was  Laguiah's  voice,  and 
the  maiden's  will  was  the  rush  which  loved  to  bend 
before  it ;  for  no  brother  could  be  dearer  than  he  had 
ever  been  to  her.  But  the  strong  grasp  of  sickness 
was  on  the  stranger's  frame,  and  it  was  long  ere  all 
their  care  could  loosen  it ;  and  often,  as  she  sat 
beside  his  couch,  while  the  spirits  of  the  past  and  of 
the  absent  seemed  hovering  around  and  in  communion 
with  him,  did  Wabegvvona  fear  that  he  would  pass 
away  to  the  Happy  Gardens  of  the  pale-faces,  and 
leave  a  shadow  on  the  soul  of  Laguiab.  For,  though 
the  Ottowa  had  slain  many  foes  on  the  war-path, 
until  his  fame  was  on  the  earth,  as  the  lights* 
whose  name  he  bore  were  in  the  sky,  and  shone  in 
the  sight  of  many  nations,  and  women  trembled  at 
its  rushing  sound,  and  warriors  mused  on  what  it 
might  portend ;  still  the  young  chief  sorrowed  for  the 
aimless  blow  which  had  struck  down  a  tree  whose  fall 
might  crush  many  flowers,  but  gave  no  place  for  glory 
to  spring  up.  But  the  summons  had  not  gone  forth, 
and    the    Englishman    was    left    to    find    the    life    to 


*  Laguiab  is  the  Indian  name  for  the  Aurora  Borealis 
22 


254  THE    LIFE    HANSOM. 

which  he  awoke,  a  wilder  dream  than  all  his  fever- 
visions. 

"Weeks  and  months  had  glided  by ;  the  snows  which 
had  not  fallen  when  Seyton  was  brought  to  the  Ot- 
towa's  encampment,  had  melted  away  with  the  hours 
for  ever  vanished,  and  leaves  were  bursting  forth  on 
the  trees,  and  flowers  were  starting  up  among  the 
bright  fresh  grass  with  all  the  rapidity  and  vigor  of  the 
vegetation  in  that  region.  But  spring  did  not  find 
the  Ottowas  where  the  autumn  left  them,  on  the  point 
beside  the  gold-bloom.  Death  had  breathed  on  one 
of  their  fairest  plants,  and  when  it  mthered  and  died, 
they,  as  is  frequent  among  the  Indians,  deserted  the 
scene  of  the  misfortune,  and  their  lodges  were  now 
raised,  and  their  fires  lighted  on  the  shores  of  a  quiet 
bdy  several  miles  lower  down  the  lake. 

Again  it  was  evening,  and  Wabegwona  sat  on  the 
star-lit  strand.  But  this  time  she  was  not  alone,  for 
Seyton  was  by  her  side,  telling  her  of  the  mighty  river 
beside  which  dwelt  her  mother's  people  and  his  own; 
and  of  the  stately  dwellings  along  its  shores,  and 
down  where  the  salt  waves  broke  in  restless  murmurs 
that  were  for  ever  whispering  of  the  distant  island  far 
towards  the  rising  sun,  where  it  moaned  and  dashed 
around  their  forefathers'  graves. 


THE    LIFE    HANSOM.  255 

And  he  told  her,  too,  of  one  who  would  gladly  bear 
away  the  fairest  flower  of  the  forest  to  bloom  within 
one  of  those  proud  dwellings ;  and  of  a  love  which 
would  guard  it  against  the  tempest,  and  shelter  it  from 
the  burning  sun-ray,  and  cheer  it,  if  the  breath  of 
sorrow,  which  wanders  every  where,  should  bow  it  to 
the  earth. 

The  maiden  smiled  as  she  listened,  but  the  English- 
man wondered  if  it  were  in  pleasure  or  in  scorn,  for 
the  faint  light  revealed  her  face  but  dimly. 

"  Has  Wabegwona  no  words  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Say, 
must  the  pale-face  regret  that  her  voice  called  him 
back,  when  his  spirit  was  on  the  wing  ? " 

There  was  a  minute's  silence,  and  then  the  low 
sweet  voice  of  Wabegwona  came  like  music  on  the 
ear.  "  Why  should  an  Ottowa  girl  speak  r  "  was  her 
reply.  "  The  words  of  the  pale-face  are  the  stars  ;  the 
heart  of  Wabegwona  is  the  lake  whereon  they  rest. 
Let  them  look  down  and  they  will  see  no  other  light 
reflected  in  it." 

A  joyful  exclamation  was  on  Seyton's  lips,  but  it 
was  stayed,  as  a  shadow  fell  on  the  sand,  and  a  form 
stood  before  him.  It  was  Laguiab ;  the  starbeams 
showed  him  deadly  pale,  and  his  arms  were  folded, 
und    his    lips    compressed,    while    his    glance    was    as 


256  THE    LIFE    KANSOM. 

tliough  the  true  Aurora  Borealis  had  flashed  upon 
them. 

"  Laguiab  is  a  fool,"  said  he,  bitterly.  "  His  rifle 
was  wise,  but  he  was  angry  with  its  wisdom.  Are 
there  no  blossoms  beside  the  distant  waters,  where  the 
pale-faces  build  their  lodges  so  high  up  into  the  sky, 
that  the  stranger  must  come  with  a  tongue  keener  and 
brighter  than  the  knives  of  his  people,  to  steal  away 
the  only  flower  an  Indian  loved  to  look  upon  ?  The 
heart  of  Laguiab  was  spread  before  my  sister,"  con- 
tinued the  warrior,  reproachfully,  to  Wabegwona. 
"  Had  the  White  Lily  looked  into  it  she  would  have 
seen  nothing  but  herself.  But  a  white  mist  has  come 
before  her  eyes,  and  she  cannot  see  —  a  strange  wind 
has  whispered  in  her  ear,  and  the  voice  to  which  she 
once  listened  is  forgotten." 

The  Ottowa  paused  ;  but,  siirprised  by  the  accusa- 
tion of  treachery,  of  which  he  had  no  thought  of  being 
guilty,  Seyton  hesitated  to  reply.  And  Wabegwona 
bowed  her  head  in  silence,  for  love  for  Laguiab  was 
strong  within  her  heart ;  but  it  was  only  as  a  brother 
that  he  had  always  mingled  in  her  thoughts,  and  she 
had  never  dreamed  of  hearing  such  words  from  his 
lips.     After  a  moment,  he  resumed  more  fiercely  — 

"  But  why  should  that  mist  stay  to  blind  the  eyes 


THE    LIFE    BAXSOM.  257 

of  Wabegwona?  Laguiab's  arm  is  stronger  tbau  his 
voice,  and  his  anger  is  a  mighty  tempest,  Avhich  breaks 
down  the  forest  as  it  passes.  It  shall  sweep  the  mist 
from  his  path,  and  the  eyes  of  the  White  Lily  can  look 
once  more  on  his  face." 

As  he  spoke  the  last  words,  Laguiab  drew  the 
tomahawk  from  his  belt.  Seyton  had  risen  to  his 
feet,  but  not  to  fly  ;  though  a  strange  thrill  shot 
through  his  heart,  as  he  stood  for  a  moment  defence- 
less before  the  enraged  Indian,  like  a  ftiwn  awaiting 
the  panther's  spring.  The  bright  weapon  gleamed  in 
the  starbeams  as  the  Ottowa  raised  his  arm ;  but  the 
next  instant  it  was  whirled  far  over  the  lake,  to  bury 
its  keen  edge  in  the  slumbering  waters. 

"  No,"  said  the  Indian,  in  a  low  deep  voice,  "  the 
arm  of  Laguiab  is  strong,  but  not  strong  enough  to 
strike  his  friend.  The  pale-face  has  slept  in  his  lodge, 
and  hunted  by  his  side,  and  an  Ottowa  chief  cannot 
take  the  life  he  has  watched  over.  There  is  a  cloud 
on  Laguiab  ;  but  the  stars  are  bright,  and  the  clouds 
cast  no  shadow  on  the  lake.  Let  it  be  so  —  the  path 
of  my  brother  shall  be  open  to  the  great  villages  of 
his  people.  Rut  let  not  his  glance  be  ever  dark 
towards  the  White  Lily,  which  his  hand  has  torn 
from  the  home  where  it  was  loved  and  sheltered  in 
22* 


258  THE    LIFE    HANSOM. 

the    forest,    to    plant   it   afar    where    the    axe    of    tl' 
stranger  has  left  no  branches  to  cover  the  earth." 

.And  before  either  had  time  to  answer,  Laguiab 
had  plunged  amid  the  dark  cedars  Avhich  reared  their 
lofty  heads  near  the  shore ;  nor  did  he  return  to  the 
encampment  until  the  silence  of  midnight  rested  or 
its  bark-covered  lodges  and  smouldering  fires.  The 
next  morning,  Seyton  asked  in  vain  for  his  host ;  for, 
before  the  last  star  faded  from  the  sky,  the  young 
chief,  with  some  half-dozen  hunters,  had  gone  into 
the  woods  in  quest  of  game.  Had  they  remained, 
they  would  have  found  more  need  for  their  rifles. 
But  no  thought  of  danger  was  in  the  minds  of  the 
Ottowas.  Not  that  they  had  no  enemies,  but  that 
^ney  dreamed  not  that  any  of  their  foes  were  near 
enough  to  raise  the  war-whoop  within  their  hearing. 

It  was  the  oft-repeated  tale  in  those  regions,  —  the 
wildcat  stealing  on  her  prey  while  it  slept.  But  this 
time  in  the  daylight.  All  was  hushed  and  still,  as 
though  the  voice  of  pain  or  discord  had  never  echoed 
through  the  wilderness,  when  suddenly  a  youth  rushed 
into  the  centre  of  the  lodges,  crying  :  —  "  The  Winne- 
bagoes  !   the  Winnebagoes  !  " 

A  wild  shriek  of  woman's  terror  was  the  reply,  to 
be  instantly  followed  by  a  shriller  cry  of  agony,  which 


THE    LIFE    RANSOM.  259 

told  that  the  work  of  destruction  had  begun,  and  to 
be  in  its  turn  lost  in  the  terrible  war-whoop  of  the 
Winnebagoes,  as  they  rushed  upon  the  unprepared 
and  unsuspecting  Ottowas.  We  will  not  describe 
the  scene  of  bloodshed  and  desolation.  It  is  enough 
that  death  and  fire  reigned  every  where,  and  that 
Wabegwona,  who  had  taken  shelter  beneath  the 
branches  of  a  fallen  tree,  saw  Seyton,  stunned  and 
bleeding,  carried  away  alive  to  meet  a  darker  fate 
than  had  befallen  her  tribesmen. 

When  Laguiab  and  his  hunters  returned  at  sunset, 
they  found  their  encampment  a  heap  of  ruins,  and 
those  they  had  left  in  life  claimed  nothing  now  at 
their  hands,  except  a  grave  and  revenge ;  so  said  the 
sorrowing  and  indignant  warriors,  when  they  heard 
the  tale  which  Wabegwona  alone  remained  to  tell. 
But  other  thoughts  were  in  the  young  chief's  mind, 
as  he  looked  upon  the  maiden's  face,  and  saw  in 
it  the  agony  which  rent  her  heart;  and  his  gaze 
lingered  on  her  pale  features  while  his  tribesmen 
spoke  of  seeking  another  band  of  their  nation,  some 
days'  journey  distant,  to  join  with  them  in  wreaking 
on  their  foes  the  vengeance  they  were  too  weak  to 
take  alone. 

"  Another  chief  will  lead  the  young  men,"  said  he, 


260  THE    LIFE    KANSOM. 

quietly ;  "  Laguiab's  path  is  over  the  water,  but  be 
must  go  alone.  Let  not  Wabegwona  weep  as  though 
the  sun  were  gone  for  ever.  Day  will  come  back  to 
pour  sunshine  on  the  darkened  lake,  and  the  drooping 
Lily  will  raise  her  head  again." 

The  night  had  passed  away,  and  the  morrow's  sun 
was  shining  gayly  and  brilliantly  on  the  scene  we  first 
described,  and  Seyton  stood  in  the  centre  of  that  spot 
of  gleaming  quartz,  to  take  his  last  farewell  of  life, 
and  view  calmly  as  he  could  the  terrible  preparations 
for  its  close.  How  the  thought  of  Wabegwona,  and 
of  that  distant  home,  whence  the  wild  spirit  of  adven- 
ture had  lured  him,  came  round  him  in  that  moment 
when  death  in  its  most  dreadful  aspect  stood  before 
him,  and  cruel  hands,  and  savage  looks,  and  taunting 
words,  surrounded  him  in  that  lonely  and  beautiful 
spot,  where  he  must  close  his  eyes  in  agony,  far 
away  from  all  he  loved,  with  not  one  kind  glance  or 
friendly  voice  to  support  him  in  the  fearful  hour  of 
trial ! 

Just  as  the  signal  for  its  commencement  was  to  be 
given,  a  youth,  who  had  accompanied  the  war  party 
to  serve  as  an  unsuspicious-looking  scout,  approached 
the  chiefs,  and  intimated  that  a  stranger  claimed  the 
privilege  of  entering  and  leaving  the  camp  immolested. 


THE    LIFE    RANSOM.  261 

Safe  conduct  was  accorded,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a 
young  Indian  advanced  into  the  circle  of  expectant 
warriors,  with  the  haughty  step  and  lofty  air  of  one 
accustomed  to  be  honored  and  obeyed.  Despite  the 
usual  self-control  of  such  assemblages,  the  name  of 
"Laguiab!"  ran  in  wondering  tones  around  the 
circle. 

"  The  Winnebagoes  looked  for  Laguiab,"  said  an  old 
chief,  with  a  hidden  sneer.  "Had  he  flown  up  into 
the  sky,  or  dived  like  an  otter  into  the  lake,  when 
the  war-whoop  was  sounding  through  the  woods?" 

"  Laguiab  has  followed  the  Winnebagoes,"  said  he 
coldly,  "  to  ask  if  they  ever  heard  his  name." 

"  It  is  the  name  of  a  brave  warrior,"  replied  the 
Winnebago.     "  There  is  no  greater  in  his  nation." 

The  dark  eye  of  the  Ottowa  flashed  proudly  for  a 
moment,  then  he  said,  as  coldly  as  before  — "  Would 
the  Winnebagoes  like  to  boast  to  their  women  that 
they  had  slain  that  warrior?  or  a  pale-face  whose 
name  they  never  heard  ? " 

"The  path  of  Laguiab  is  open,"  replied  the  old  chief. 
"  The  Winnebagoes  will  not  keep  what  is  not  theirs." 

"  Let  the  pale-face  be  as  free  as  the  wind  which 
wanders  over  the  lake,"  said  Laguiab,  "  and  an  Ottowa 
chief  will  be  the  prisoner  of  his  foes." 


262  THE    LIFE    KANSOM. 

The  old  chief  waved  his  hand,  and  in  an  instant  a 
ready  knife  severed  the  thongs  which  bound  Seyton 
to'  the  stake. 

"Laguiab!  Laguiab  !  this  must  not  be  !"  exclaimed 
the  Englishman,  springing  to  his  side.  "  What  have 
I  done,  that  you  should  die  for  me?" 

A  mournful  smile  flitted  over  the  Ottowa's  face. 
He  pressed  Seyton's  hand,  and  whispered  in  his  ear : 
"  There  is  sorrow  in  the  heart  of  Wabegwona,  and 
the  eyes  of  Laguiab  could  not  look  upon  her  tears. 
It  is  well  —  Laguiab  is  content.  The  voices  of  his 
fathers  are  in  his  ears,  calling  him  away,  and  an 
Indian  must  follow  to  the  Land  of  Spirits.  Why 
should  he  stay  ?  The  light  of  Laguiab  will  shine 
no  more  upon  the  night  of  the  Ottowas ;  but  the 
White  Lily  will  be  happy  in  the  shelter  that  she 
loves." 

Then  turning  away,  he  spoke  a  few  words  to  his 
captors ;  and  before  the  Englishman  well  knew  the 
purpose  of  the  Indians,  who  once  more  seized  him, 
he  was  speeding  over  the  deep  waters,  far  away  from 
the  fatal  spot  where  the  life  of  Laguiab  was  being 
paid  the  fearful  price  of  his  liberty. 

And  there,  on  the  gold-bloom,  was  offered  up  to  the 
noble  heart  of  the  Ottowa  chief,  the  sacrifice  of  a  self- 


THE    LIFE    RANSOM.  263 

devotion,  against  which,  not  all  the  wealth,  slumbering 
in  the  untouched  mine,  could  ever  weigh.  The  next 
tempest  swept  away  the  traces  of  the  sacrifice ;  and 
Avhen  we  heard  the  tale,  and  looked  upon  the  spot, 
all  was  calm  and  bright,  as  though  the  passions  of 
man  had  never  cast  a  shadow  upon  the  earth,  though 
oven  then  the  name  of  Laguiab  was  still  loved  and 
wept  over  in  one  dwelling  far  away  on  the  banks  of 
the  St.  Lawrence.  And  many,  many  more  years  must 
glide  into  the  past,  ere  the  memory  of  that  deed  shall 
die  away,  or  it  cease  to  be  recounted  to  those,  who, 
like  ourselves,  may  chance  to  rest  in  that  wild  but 
lovely  scene,  amid  their  wanderings  in  the  West. 


WOMAN'S    FAITH. 

BY   B.    B.    M. 

•*  Lady  !  lie  gives  thee  back  the  vow 

He  once  might  call  his  own ; 
For  fallen  are  his  fortunes  now, 

And  all  his  bright  hopes  gone. 
Now  poverty,  thou  peerless  maid ! 

Rests  on  his  noble  brow." 
She  raised  her  tearful  eyes  and  said  — 

*'  I  love  him  better  now." 

*•  Lady !  the  noble  form  ye  loved 
Is  marr'd  with  care  and  woe ; 
The  step  that  once  so  graceful  moved 

Is  thoughtful,  sad,  and  slow. 
He  may  not  claim  his  promised  bride, 
He  gives  you  back  your  vow." 
"  I  love  him  still,"  she  softly  sighed, 
"  I  love  him  better  now." 


woman's  faith.  265 

"I  love  him  better  now,"  she  said, 
"  Though  wealth  and  lands  are  gone, 
Than  when  proud  nobles  homage  paid, 

Though  now  he's  left  alone. 
Tell  him  that  true  love  ne'er  hath  known 

Change,  when  it  loved  before ; 
Tell  him  the  heart  that  was  his  own 
Is  his  for  evermore." 
23 


LESSONS    IN    THE    SCHOOL    OF    LIFE, 

BY   MES.    JAMES    WHITTLE. 

"  What  did  my  aunt  mean,  when  she  said  to 
you  this  morning  that  my  education  would  never 
be  finished?  Surely,  mamma,  I  am  not  always  to 
remain  at  school.  I  am  sure  I  often  wish  the  time 
were  come,  when,  instead  of  having  to  leave  you  at 
the  end  of  every  holiday,  I  could  always  stay  with 
you,  dear  mamma,  and  wait  on  you,  and  nurse  you, 
and  try  to  amuse  you,  when  you  look  so  sad,  and 
so  weary;  and  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  I  learn 
more  in  listening  to  you,  and  hearing  you  read  to 
me,  than  I  do  from  all  the  regular  lessons  I  learn 
during  the  whole  half-year.  Do  you  know,  mamma, 
I  remember  every  thing  you  tell  me,  while  all  that  I 
learn  by  heart,  to  say  to  Miss  Brewster,  is  forgotten 
in  a  minute.  When  shall  I  leave  school,  and  be 
always  with  you  ?  " 

The  little  girl,  as  she  asked   this   question,  looked 


LESSONS    IN    THE    SCHOOL    OF    LIFE.  267 

eagerly  into  lier  mother's  face,  and  saw  that  large 
tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks.  Fearful  lest 
she  had  been  the  cause,  she  threw  her  little  arms 
round  her  neck,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 
The  mother  raised  her  languid  head  from  her  pillow, 
as  she  replied,  "  Fanny,  sit  down  beside  me,  on  the 
sofa,  and  let  me  tell  you  what  your  aunt  and  I 
mean,  when  we  say  that  your  education  will  never 
be  finished.  While  we  live,  we  may  still  learn  some- 
thing, and  the  school  in  which  you  at  present  study 
is  only  the  first  class  in  that  wider  school,  the  world, 
in  which,  by-and-by,  you  will  have  to  take  your  place, 

—  in  which  I,  Fanny,  am  a  scholar." 

"  You,  mamma,  a  scholar  ?     Why,  you  are  a  woman 

—  a  wise,  grown-up  woman.  You  have  no  lessons  to 
learn,  no  tasks  to  repeat,  no  punishments  to  bear, 
no"— 

"  Stay,  Fanny,  I  have  all  these.  I  have  many 
lessons  to  learn  daily,  many  tasks  to  perform,  many 
punishments  to  endure.  Do  you  think  that  I  lie 
here  on  this  sofa,  day  after  day,  and  month  after 
month,  without  learning  any  thing  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  mamma !  You  are  always  reading  large, 
wise  books." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  child ;    but  it  is   not    always  from 


2G8  LESSOXS    IN    THE    SCHOOL    OF    LIFE. 

books  that  we  learn  lessons  in  the  great  school  I 
told  you  of.  Life  is  bestowed  upon  us  by  God ; 
that  great  and  good  Being,  who  creates  nothing  in 
vain,  had  some  wise  purpose  in  breathing  into  each 
of  us  the  breath  of  life ;  it  is  for  us  to  find  out 
what  particular  task  God  has  apportioned  to  us ;  to 
learn  what  this  is,  is  the  important  lesson  which  must 
be  studied  in  the  great  school  of  life." 

"  But,  mamma,"  said  Fanny,  after  a  longer  pause 
than  was  usual  with  her,  "  how  can  a  little  girl  hope 
to  find  out  what  God  intends  her  to  do  ?  God  cannot 
care  whether  my  lessons  are  said  well  or  not ;  what 
can  I  do,  that  can  please  God,  or  show  Him  that  I 
am  wishing  to  find  out  what  He  intends  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  You  can  do  what  you  know  to  be  right  in  the  school 
in  which  you  are  for  the  present  placed ;  you  can  learn 
to  be  obedient  to  those  who  are  older  and  wiser  than 
yourself;  you  can  be  kind  and  affectionate  to  your 
schoolfellows,  willing  to  give  up  your  own  will  to 
theirs ;  you  can  be  careful  not  to  resent  any  unkind 
word  which  may  be  said  to  you ;  you  may  help  those 
who  are  weaker  than  yourself;  you  may  comfort  any 
who  are  unhappy ;  and  if,  amongst  your  playfellows, 
one  has  done  a  A\Tong  action,  you  may,  perhaps,  by 
kindly   pointing   out  to  her   the  harm  she  has   done. 


LESSONS    IN    THE    SCHOOL    OF    LIFE.  269 

induce  her  to  strive  in  future  to  avoid  all  sin.  These 
duties,  my  little  girl,  belong  to  your  position  as  a 
schoolfellow ;  and  the  same  duties,  rightly  and  faith- 
fully discharged,  make  good  men  and  women,  good 
servants  and  good  masters,  good  parents  and  good 
friends,  good  statesmen  and  good  kings.  Greater 
duty  there  is  none,  whether  in  you,  as  a  little  child, 
or  in  the  queen  upon  her  throne,  than  that  you 
should  do  unto  others  what  you  would  wish  others 
to  do  unto  you.  And  this,  Fanny,  is  one  of  the 
lessons  that  we  all  have  to  learn  in  the  great  school 
of  life.  Another,  and  far  more  diiRcult  one,  is  that 
of  bending  our  wishes  to  the  will  of  our  Father  in 
Heaven.  You,  who  are  happy  and  gay,  to  whom 
sorrow  seems  a  thing  still  far  distant,  a  sort  of 
awful  stranger,  who  may  one  day  come  into  your 
home,  but  who  is  as  yet  unknown  to  you,  may 
think  it  an  easy  thing  to  say  those  words,  which 
daily  you  repeat :  '  Thy  will  be  done ; '  but,  Fanny, 
dear,  it  needs  a  brave  heart,  and  a  firm  trust  in 
God,  to  say  that  little  sentence  when  sorrow  really 
comes ;  when  Death  first  enters  our  home,  and  takes 
away  the  little  girl  from  her  mamma,  or  perhaps  the 
mother  from  her  child ;  then  it  is  that  we  must  learn 

the  hard  task  of  submission ;  and  many  are  the  tears 
23* 


270  LESSONS    IN    THE    SCHOOL    OF    LIFE. 

that  are  shed  ere  that  difficult  lesson  be  learned.  Or 
it  may  be  that  sickness  comes,  as  it  has  come  to  me, 
Fanny,  binding  me  like  a  prisoner,  with  fetters  of  pain, 
to  one  spot ;  depriving  me  of  all  my  former  pleasures, 
and  rendering  me  useless  to  others.  To  bear  the  pain 
that  never  leaves  me,  to  lie  here,  and  never  again 
go  forth  into  the  fields  with  you,  and  show  you  the 
glorious  works  of  God,  there  set  before  us  —  to  do 
this,  and  be  patient  and  content,  and  be  able  to  say, 
'  Thy  will  be  done,'  is  not  an  easy  thing ;  and  this, 
Fanny,  is  the  lesson  I  study  daily." 

The  little  maiden's  eyes  were  full  of  tears ;  she 
knelt  beside  the  couch,  hid  her  face  in  her  mother's 
bosom  aflid  was  silent.  Then  looking  up,  a  smile 
brightened  her  sweet  face,  as  she  said,  "  And  yet, 
mamma,  you  are  happy ;  no  one  smiles  as  you  do, 
no  one  looks  more  cheerful ;  "  then,  after  a  minute's 
pause,  she  added,  "  Ah !  mamma,  I  see  it  all  now ; 
you  have  learned  your  lessons  well,  and  as  I  am  never 
unhappy  when  I  do  and  say  all  my  governess  requires 
from  me,  so  you  are  happy,  because  you  have  learned 
to  do  and  say  all  that  God  requires  of  you." 

The  mother  smiled,  and  said,  "  Not  all,  my  child  ;  " 
but  her  heart  was  glad  that  Fanny  had  thus  learned 
one  of  the  lessons  of  Life's  Great  School. 


THE     GAMBLEK. 

BY  ANNETTE  BLASHFORD. 

J  LOVED  her  with  a  love  profound, 

Oh !    a  love  which  made  all  seem 
A  blank,  and  desolation, 

Save  the  halo  round  that  dream ! 
I  garner' d  in  my  fond  heart 

Those  happy  thoughts  of  joy, 
Which  from  their  very  freshness 

Made  me  feel  again  a  boy ! 

She  was  very  fair  to  look  on. 

And  I  oft  in  fondness  thought 
That  influence  superhuman 

Had  that  wond'rous  beauty  wrought. 
Her  eyes,  they  were  so  purely  blue. 

That  when  they  skyward  turned, 
It  seemed  as  Heaven  sent  down  the  light 

Which  there  serenely  burned. 


272  THE    GAMBLER. 

Yet  she  forsook  me !    prayers  were  vain 

To  change  a  foredoomed  fate : 
She  bowed  to  Mammon  !   life  to  me 

Became  a  tedious  weight! 
We  met  and  parted.     Yes,  she  wept, 

As  though  her  heart  too  bled; 
And  when  she  left  me,  wreaths  of  snow 

Had  gathered  o'er  my  head ! 

My  hair  was  bleached  in  one  short  night; 

Oh,  she  thinks  not  of  the  cause ! 
My  bosom  turned  against  mankind, 

Whose  worldly,  unjust  laws. 
Make  it  no  crime  to  doom  the  heart 

To  sorrow,  gloom,  and  sin. 
Because  a  rich  man  coveting 

Our  prize,  with  gold  may  win ! 

She  married.     On  that  fatal  day 

My  birthright  home  I  sold ! 
And  with  a  maniac  shout,  I  blest 

Her  darling  idol.  Gold! 
"  I'll  buy  forgetfulness,"  I  cried, 

"  And  love  ;    for  that  she's  proved ;  " 
Yet  somehow,  though  I  squandered  much, 

Nc  sorrow  was  removed ! 


THE    GAMBLER.  273 

I  flew  to  cards,  and  wine,  and  dice, 

Yet  not  one  heart's  pang  stirred, 
For  even  midst  the  wildest  mirth, 

Her  soft,  sad  voice  I  heard. 
It  called  to  me  with  prayers  and  tears, 

Beseeching  me  to  think 
Of  the  gulf  which  I  was  hanging  o'er. 

With  ruin  on  its  brink. 

I  often  thought  she  loved  me  still, 

And  for  her  parents'  sake. 
Had  taken  up  this  weight  of  woe, 

For  them  a  home  to  make. 
I  saw  her  once,  and  in  her  eye 

Arose  a  sudden  dread; 
I  was  so  changed,  remorseless  fear 

Visioned  me  from  the  dead! 

I'm  poor  and  ruined  now,  and  all 

Look  coldly  down  on  me ; 
And  every  thing  has  past  away, 

Save  that  curst  memory ! 
Around  it,  wreathe  Jier  golden  curls, 

I  look  on  my  silvered  hair; 
And  think,  —  does  she  remember  still  I 

Is  she  still  loved,  and  fair? 


LOVE  AND  AMBITION; 
OK,  THE  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  HOSE. 

It  is  not  very  long  ago  since  the  aged  Marchese  di 

B —  used  to  be  seen  occasionally  within  the  walla 

of  our  "  fair  Florence,"  *  visiting  her  noble  works  of 
art  and  aiding  her  Institutions  by  his  counsels  and  his 
liberality.  This  venerable  man,  after  having  spent  the 
flower  of  his  years  in  the  public  service  of  his  country, 
and  filled  with  credit  the  highest  offices  of  the  state, 
had,  on  the  approach  of  old  age,  withdrawn  into  an 
honorable  retirement,  where  his  days  rolled  on  in  the 
enjoyment  of  literary  ease  and  kindly  benevolence. 

Rarely  did  he  quit  his  beautiful  "Villa,  except  for  a 
brief  visit  to  some  of  the  Italian  cities,  where  he  loved 
to  seek  out  the  remains  of  antiquity,  or  to  wander 
through  the  noble  picture-galleries,  with  which  so 
many  of   them    abound.     On   such  occasions,  he  was 

•  "  Firenze  la  Bella." 


LOVE    AKD    AMBIXXON.  275 

■wont  to  leave  behind  him  his  numerous  retinue  of 
servants,  and  set  out  in  a  modest  equipage,  accom- 
panied only  by  a  confidential  valet,  and  a  favorite 
nephew,  whose  enthusiastic  love  of  the  heaux-aris 
made  him  a  suitable  companion  in  such  excursions. 

One  day  they  were  visiting  together  a  celebrated 
picture-gallery.  The  guide  who  accompanied  them 
passed  along  from  one  chef-d'' CBUvre  to  another,  des- 
canting fluently  on  their  various  merits,  and  scarcely 
deigning  to  stop  a  moment  before  any  works  of  lesser 
note.  They  stood  before  a  painting  of  Titian's,  and 
the  guide  had  commenced  his  accustomed  panegyric, 
when  he  perceived  that  the  old  gentleman  was  gazing 
intently  on  a  work  of  inferior  merit,  which  hung  close 
to  Titian's  gorgeous  painting.  It  represented  a  youth- 
ful lady,  simply  yet  elegantly  clad,  who  was  in  the  act 
of  placing  in  her  bosom  a  rose,  on  Avhich  she  gazed 
with  a  gentle  smile,  as  if  it  were  the  bearer  of  some 
message  of  kindness  or  of  love.  Her  countenance 
beamed  with  ingenuous  candor,  and  the  innocent 
brightness  of  her  glance  added  to  the  loveliness  of  her 
features. 

The  old  man  appeared  to  be  fascinated  by  the 
portrait  which  absorbed  his  whole  attention,  so  that  he 
allowed  the  guide  to  go  on  with  his  professional  story 


276  LOVE    AND    AMBITION. 

without  giving  the  slightest  heed  to  what  he  was 
talking  about.  The  latter,  observing  this  engouement, 
stepped  back  a  little,  and  pointing  to  the  lady's 
portrait,  said  aloud :  "  It  must  be  conceded  that  this 
also  is  a  good  painting.  It  is  by  Francisco  Porbus, 
a  distinguished  portrait  painter.  The  subject  is 
unknown ;  but  it  may  readily  be  perceived  that  the 
likeness   is   an  admirable   one,  for  it   breathes   life  in 

every  feature.     The    position  is  full    of  grace .  the 

coloring  of  the  flesh  is  faultless ....  What  transpa- 
rency !  what  light !  Observe  the  harmony  subsisting 
between  the  white  robe  and  the  dark  upper  garment, 
although  the  tints  contrast  so  strongly  . . . .  "  But  at 
this  moment,  a  gay  young  noble  entered,  with  all  the 
airs  of  a  fashionable  connoisseur  ;  and  the  guide, 
leaving  his  discourse  unfinished,  hastened  to  welcome 
the  new  comer  with  a  profusion  of  bows,  leaving  the 
old  man  still  entranced  before  the  unknown  portrait. 

Rousing  himself  at  length  from  his  reverie,  and 
drawing  a  deep  sigh,  the  Marchese  addressed  his 
nephew,  on  whose  arm  he  was  leaning,  and  whom, 
unconsciously,  he  had  in  the  depth  of  his  emotion 
almost  pressed  to  his  bosom. 

"  Be  not  surprised,"  said  the  old  man,  "  at  the 
lengthened  contemplation  I  bestow  upon  this  unknown 


liOVE    AND    AMBITION.  277 

picture.  It  revives  the  saddest  and  yet  sweetest 
emotion  that  was  ever  awakened  within  my  breast.  I 
was  like  unto  thee ;  in  all  the  vigor  of  my  youth  — 
beloved  by  my  parents  —  surrounded  by  every  earthly 
good  —  heedless  about  the  future  —  little  dreaming  of 
the  luminous  career  (as  flatterers  call  it)  which  I 
should  afterwards  pursue.  It  was  at  sunset,  in  the 
dear  and  joyous  month  of  May,  and  I  was  walking 
with  a  fellow-student  in  his  garden.  His  only  sister 
was  with  us.  Her  features  did  not  resemble  this 
lady's,  but  she  had  the  same  sweet  and  ingenuous 
countenance,  and  like  her,  she  was  dressed  with  perfect 
simplicity,  unadorned,  save  by  one  beauteous  rose 
which  she  had  gathered  while  we  were  standing 
together  gazing  on  the  glorious  sunset.  I  almost 
mechanically  plucked  one  from  the  same  branch,  and 
after  a  few  moments'  silent  admiration,  we  pursued 
our  walk.  "While  conversing  together,  my  fair  com- 
panion's flower  dropped  out  of  her  hand,  whereupon  I 
hastily  picked  it  up  and  offered  her  mine  in  its  stead. 
She  accepted  it  with  a  smUe,  and  placed  it  in  her 
bosom,  worn  as  is  represented  in  the  picture  before  us. 
I  cannot  describe  the  happiness  which  at  that  moment 
filled  my  breast :  but  too  soon  the  impression  wore 
away,  for  it  was  about  that  time  that  I  obtained  my 
24 


278  LOVE    AND    AMBITION. 

first  official  employment.  It  is  true,  that  I  accepted  it 
out  of  obedience  to  -my  father's  wishes,  for  no  dream 
of  ambition  had  yet  bewildered  my  mind ;  but  before 
long  its  snares  were  successfully  spread  around  me  ; 
and  amid  the  smiles  of  princes,  and  the  adulation  of 
courtiers,  the  image  of  my  fair  young  friend  gradually 
faded  out  of  my  thoughts.  I  scarcely  knew  that  I  had 
loved  her,  until,  in  a  time  of  mental  anxiety  and  deep 
disappointment,  I  bethought  me  of  the  young  maiden 
and  the  rose.  Her  image  floated  across  my  vision, 
like  those  refreshing  waters  which  are  often  seen  afar 
off  in  the  desert,  but  which  vanish  from  the  longing 
gaze  of  the  traveller  as  he  approaches  nearer  unto 
them.  Even  so  did  the  idea  of  domestic  love  and 
peace  pass  like  a  pleasing  dream  before  me  amid  the 
turmoils  of  public  life ;  but  such  moments  of  happy 
thought  were  rare  and  fleeting.  I  had  entered  a 
career  of  emulation,  and  could  not  bear  to  be  sur- 
passed by  my  rivals  in  fame.  Titles,  honors,  wealth, 
luxury,  all  these  have  I  attained ;  and  yet,  on  looking 
back  at  my  long  and  brilliant  course,  my  thoughts  rest 
with  pleasure  only  upon  the  one  bright  yet  tranquil 
hour  which  preceded  all  this  glory.  Now,  all  is  over 
—  early  love  ....  manly  ambition  ....  successful  pride 
....  But  amid  the  many  favors  scattered  around  my 


LOVE    AND    AMBITION.  279 

path,  I  have  slighted  the  only  one  which  could  have 
brought  a  daily  sunshine  into  my  domestic  life." 

The  old  man  ceased,  and  after  a  moment's  pause,  he 
added,  with  a  deep  sigh  :  — 

"  My  friend,  when  these  eyes  are  closed  in  death, 
suifer  not  a  deceiving  hand  to  record  in  marble  that  I 
was  great  and  good,  and  wise  and  happy ;  but  take 
care,  I  charge  you,  to  have  a  simple  rose  sculptured 
upon  mv  tomb." 


THE    OLD    YEW-TREE. 

Oh  !  solemn  and  dark  is  the  old  Yew-Tree, 
That  has  braved  a  thousand  years ; 

In  the  churchyard  it  waveth  gloomily 
Amid  the  mourners'  tears. 

And  its  gnarled  old  boughs  of  massy  mould 
Have  heard  strange  language  spoken ; 

What  tales  could  their  changeless  age  unfold, 
"Were  its  lasting  silence  broken ! 

They  have  heard  the  merry  joy-bells  peal 
For  battles  won  triumphantly  ;  — 

They  have  echoed  the  heavy  passing-bell 
When  Death  hath  had  the  victory. 

They  have  seen  the  gushing  stream  of  mirth 
Rolled  back  by  the  tide  of  sorrow, 

And  the  joy,  that  a  morning  gave  to  birth, 
All  quenched  in  woe  to-morrow. 


THE    OLD    YEW-TKEE. 


281 


They  have  seen  the  pomp  of  the  bridal  day, 

And  beauty  by  true  love  won; 
They  have  watched  the  widowed  mother  pray 

O'er  the  grave  of  her  only  son. 

Oh!  mournful  thoughts  dwell  around  the  Yew, 

'Neath  its  black  and  mossy  shade  ; 
But  ages  pass,  —  it  rests  green  and  true, 

While  stately  forests  fade. 

And  though  the  Yew  Tree  hath  entwined  its  root 
Round  the  dead,  where  they  peaceful  lie, 

Yet  its  fadeless  branches  upward  shoot. 
Emblems  of  immortality ! 


THE    ANGEL    AND    THE    FLOWERS. 
[translated       from      the      DANISH.] 

"  Each  time  that  a  good  child  dies,  an  Angel  of 
God  comes  down  to  earth,  takes  the  dead  child  in 
his  arms,  spreads  abroad  his  large  snow-white  wings, 
flies  forth  over  all  those  places  which  the  child  had 
loved,  and  plucks  a  whole  handful  of  flowers,  which 
he  bears  upwards  with  him  to  the  throne  of  God, 
that  they  may  bloom  there  in  yet  greater  loveliness 
than  they  had  ever  bloomed  on  earth.  The  good 
God  folds  all  these  flowers  to  His  bosom,  but  upon 
the  flower  which  He  loveth  best,  He  breathe^  a  kiss, 
and  then  a  voice  is  given  to  it,  and  it  can  ^  in  in 
the  song  of  universal  blessedness." 

Lo,  all  this  did  an  Angel  of  God  relate,  whilst  he 
bore  a  little  child  to  Heaven ;  and  the  child  heard 
as  if  in  a  dream,  and  the  Angel  winged  his  flight 
over  those  spots  in  the  child's  home  where  the 
little   one    had   been   wont    to    play,   and   they  passed 


THE    ANGEL    AKD    THE    FLOWEKS.  283 

through     gardens    which    were    filled    with    glorious 
flowers, 

"  Which  of  all  these  shall  we  take  with  us,  and 
plant  in  Heaven?"  asked  the  Angel. 

Now  there  stood  in  the  garden  a  slender  and 
beautiful  rose-tree,  but  a  wicked  hand  had  broken 
the  stem,  so  that  its  boughs  hung  around  it  withered, 
though  laden  with  large  half-unfolded  buds. 

"The  poor  Rose-tree!"  said  the  chUd ;  "let  us 
take  it  with  us,  that  it  may  bloom  above  there  in 
the  presence  of  God." 

And  the  Angel  took  the  rose-tree,  and  kissed  the 
child  because  of  the  words  it  had  spoken ;  and  the 
little  one  half  opened  his  eyes.  They  then  plucked 
some  of  the  gorgeous  flowers  which  grew  in  the 
garden,  but  they  also  gathered  the  despised  butter- 
cup, and  the  wild  heart's-ease. 

"  Now  then  we  have  flowers  !  "  exclaimed  the  child, 
and  the  Angel  bowed  his  head ;  but  he  winged  not 
yet  his  flight  towards  the  throne  of  God.  It  was 
night  —  all  was  still  —  they  remained  in  the  great  city, 
they  hovered  over  one  of  the  narrow  streets  in  which 
lay  heaps  of  straw,  ashes,  and  rubbish,  for  it  was 
flitting  day. 

Fragments  of  plates,  broken  mortar,  rags,  and  old 


284       THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

hats,  lay  scattered  around,  all  whicli  bore  a  very 
uninviting  aspect. 

The  Angel  pointed  out  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
confused  rubbish,  some  broken  fragments  of  a  flower- 
pot, and  a  clump  of  earth  which  had  fallen  out  of  it, 
and  was  only  held  together  by  the  withered  roots  of 
a  wild-flower,  which  had  been  thrown  out  into  the 
street  because  it  was  considered  utterly  worthless. 

"  We  will  take  this  with  us,"  said  the  Angel ;  "  and 
I  will  tell  thee  why,  as  we  soar  upwards  together  to 
the  throne  of  God." 

So  they  resumed  their  flight,  and  the  Angel  thus 
related  his  story  :  — 

"  Down  in  that  narrow  street,  in  the  lowest  cellar, 
there  once  dwelt  a  poor,  sick  ooy ;  from  his  very 
infancy  he  was  almost  bed-ridden.  On  his  best  days, 
he  could  take  two  or  three  turns  on  crutches  across 
his  little  chamber,  and  that  was  all  he  could  do.  On 
a  few  days  in  summer,  the  beams  of  the  sun  used  to 
penetrate  for  half  an  hour  to  the  floor  of  the  cellar ; 
and  when  the  poor  boy  sat  there,  and  let  the  warm, 
sun  shine  upon  him,  and  looked  at  the  bright  red 
blood  flowing  through  his  delicate  fingers,  as  he  held 
them  before  his  face,  then  was  it  said  of  him  '  He 
has  been  out  to-day.'     A  neighbor's  son  used  always 


THE    ANGEL    AND    THE    FLOWERS.  285 

to  bring  him  one  of  the  young  boughs  of  the  beet  h- 
tree,  when  it  was  first  budding  into  life,  and  this 
was  all  he  knew  of  the  woods  in  their  beauteous 
clothing  of  spring  verdure.  Then  would  he  place 
this  bough  above  his  head,  and  dream  that  he  was 
under  the  beech-trees,  where  the  sun  was  shining, 
and  the  birds  were  singing.  On  one  Spring  day,  the 
neighbor's  son  also  brought  him  some  wild  flowers, 
and  amongst  these  there  happened  to  be  one  which  had 
retained  its  root,  and  for  this  reason  it  was  placed  in  a 
flower-pot  and  laid  upon  the  window-sill  quite  close  to 
the  bed.  And  the  flower  was  planted  by  a  fortunate 
hand,  and  it  grew  and  sent  forth  new  shoots,  and  bore 
flowers  every  year ;  it  was  the  sick  boy's  most  precious 
flower-garden  —  his  little  treasure  here  on  earth  —  he 
watered  it,  and  cherished  it,  and  took  care  that  the 
very  last  sunbeam  which  glided  through  the  lowly 
wdndow,  should  shine  upon  its  blossoms  And  these 
flowers  were  interwoven  even  in  his  dre.  ais  —  for  him 
they  bloomed,  for  him  they  shed  around  t  eir  fragrance 
and  rejoiced  the  eye  with  their  beauty;  and  when  the 
Lord  called  him  hence,  he  turned,  even  in  death, 
towards  his  cherished  plant.  He  has  now  been  a  year 
with  God,  a  year  has  the  flower  stood  forgotten  in  the 
window,  and  now  it  is  withered,  therefore  has  it  been 


2b6  THE    ANGEL    AND    THE    FLOWERS. 

thrown  out  with  the  rubbish  into  the  street.  And  this 
is  the  flower,  the  poor  withered  flower  which  we  have 
added  to  our  nosegay,  for  this  flower  has  imparted 
more  joy  than  the  rarest  and  brightest  blossom  which 
ever  bloomed  in  the  garden  of  a  queen." 

"  But  how  comest  thou  to  know  all  this  ? "  asked 
the  child  whom  the  Angel  was  bearing  with  him  to 
Heaven. 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  the  Angel,  "  for  I  was  myself 
the  little  sick  boy  who  went  upon  crutches.  I  know 
my  flower  well." 

And  now  the  child  altogether  unclosed  his  eyes,  and 
gazed  into  the  bright  glorious  countenance  of  the 
Angel,  and  at  the  same  moment  they  found  themselves 
in  the  Paradise  of  God,  where  joy  and  blessedness  for 
ever  dwel! 

And  God  folded  the  dead  child  to  His  heart,  and  he 
received  wings  like  the  other  Angel,  and  flew  hand  in 
hand  with  him.  And  all  the  flowers,  also,  God  folded 
to  His  heart,  but  upon  the  poor  withered  mid  flower 
He  breathed  a  kiss,  and  a  voice  was  given  to  it,  and  it 
sang  together  with  all  the  Angels  which  encircled  the 
throne  of  God  ;  some  very  nigh  unto  His  presence, 
others  encompassing  these  in  ever-widening  circles, 
until    they  reached    into   Infinity  itself,   but  all   alike 


THE    ANGEX    AND    THE    FLOWEES.  287 

were  happy.  And  they  all  sang  with  one  voice,  little 
and  great ;  the  good,  blessed  child,  and  the  poor  wild 
flower,  which  had  lain  withered  and  cast  out  amongst 
the  sweepings,  and  under  the  rubbish  of  the  jflitting 
day,  in  the  midst  of  the  dark    narrow  street. 


SONNET. 


BY   CALDER   CAMPBELL. 


"  No  more,  oh !  never  more  shall  I  retrace 

Through  seaward  brae,  and  yonder  sandy  shore !  ** 

It  was  a  prophecy,  —  for  never  more 

Hath  it  been  mine,  in  that  dear  native  place, 

To  look  on  many  a  loved  familiar  face ; 

For  death  hath  oft  been  there,  as  sickness  sore 

With  me,  since  then.  —  Yet  memory,  oft,  before 

Mine  eyes  doth  set  each  scene,  and  fill  each  space 

With  objects  of  the  past :   autumnal  fields. 

Strewed  with  gold  sheaves,  where  sleepy  Ceres  nods 

'Neath  the  sun's  smile,  —  stretches  of  heath  that  yields 

Abundant  honey,  —  moors,  where  hares  abound. 

And  throbbing  furzes,  heat-struck,  burst  the  pods, 

Scattering  ripe  seeds  amidst  the  moss  around! 


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